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DEVEFWEUX. 


DEVEREUX 


A   TALE 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON,  BART. 


*  He  that  knows  most  men's  manners,  must  of  necessity 
Best  know  his  own.  and  mend  those  by  example. 

.     .      .     Pure  and  strong  spirits 
Do,  like  the  fire,  still  covet  to  fly  upward." 

The  Queen  of  Corinth,  Act  2,  Scene  a. 


NEW  YORK 

THE   CASSELL   PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  East  17TH  St.  (Union  Square) 


THE  UERSHOIT  COHPAMV  FRSSS, 
EAHWAY,  K.  J. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 

PAGE 

Chap.  I. — Of  the  Hero's  Birth  and  Parentage. — Nothing  can  differ 

more  from  the  End  of  things  than  their  beginning      -        -        -     1 1 

Chap,  II. — A  Family  Consultation. — A  Priest,  and  an  ^Era  in  Life     15 

Chap.  III. — A  Change  in  Conduct  and  in  Character — our  evil  Passions 
will  sometimes  produce  good  Effects  ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  an 
Alteration  for  the  better  in  Manners  will,  not  unfrequently,  have 
amongst  its  Causes  a  little  Corruption  of  Mind  ;  for  the  Feelings 
are  so  blended,  that  in  suppressing  those  disagreeable  to  others, 
we  often  suppress  those  which  are  amiable  in  themselves    -        -     19 

Chap.  IV. — A  Contest  of  Art,  and  a  League  of  Friendship — Two 
Characters  in  mutual  Ignorance  of  each  other,  and  the  reader  no 
wiser  than  either  of  them    -        -        -        -        --        -        -27 

Chap.  V. — Royal    Hospitality  —  an    extraordinary    Guest. —  A    Fine 

Gentleman  is  not  necessarily  a  Fool 32 

Chap.  VI . — A  Dialogue,  which  might  be  dull  if  it  were  longer         -        36 

Chap.  VII. — A  change  of  Prospects — a  new  insight  into  the  character 

of  the  Hero — a  Conference  between  two  Brothers       -        -        -39 

Chap.  VIIL— First  Love •      -         44 

Chap.  IX. — A  Discovery,  and  a  Departure 54 

Chap.  X. — A  very  short  Chapter — containing  a  Valet      -        -        -         60 

Chap.  XI. — The  Hero  acquits  himself  honorably  as  a  Coxcomb — a 
Fine  Lady  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  and  a  fashionable  Dia- 
logue— the  Substance  of  fashionable  Dialogue  being  in  all  Cen- 
turies the  same    - 6: 

Chap.  XII. — The  Abbe's  return — a  Sword,  and  a  Soliloquy    -        -         67 

Chap.  XIII. — A  mysterious  Letter — a  Duel — the  Departure  of  one  of 

the  Family         -        -        -        -        --        -.        •        -69 

Chap.  XIV.— Being  a  Chapter  of  Trifles 78 

Chap.  XV. — The  Mother  and  Son — Virtue  should  be  the  Sovereign  of 

the  Feelings,  not  their  Destroyer        -        -        -        -  -So 

iii 


Jv  CONTENTS. 


BOOK    II. 

PAGS 
Chap.  I. — The  Hero  in  London — Pleasure  is  often  the  shortest,  as  it 
is  the  earliest  road  to  Wisdom,  and  we  may  say  of  the  World 
what  Zeal-of-the-Land-Busy  says  of  the  Pig-Booth,  "We  escape 
so  much  of  the  other  vanities  by  pur  early  entering  "  -        -        -     84 

Chap.  II. — Gay  Scenes  and  Conversations: — the  New  Exchange  and 

the  Puppet  Show: — The  Actor,  the  Sexton,  and  the  Beauty        -     88 

Chap.  III. — More  Lions 93 

Chap.  IV. — An  Intellectual  Advenrtvure  f 97 

Chap.  V. — The  Beau  in  his  Den,  and  a  Philosopher  discovered        -         99 

Chap.  "VI.^— An  Universal  Genius — Pericles  turned  Barber — Names  of 

Beauties  in  171 the  Toasts  of  the  Kit-Cat  Club    -    v-'i      -107 

Chap.  VIL — A  Dialogue  of  Sentiment  succeeded  by  the  Sketch  'of  a 
Character,  in  whose  eyes  Sentiment  was  to  Wise  Men  w^t  Re- 
ligion is  to  Fools,  viz. — a  subject  of  ridicule       -        -     •  -        -  iil 

Chap.  VIII. — Lightly  won — lightly  lost.— A  Dialogue  of  equal  In- 
struction and  Amusement. — A  Visit  to  Sir  Godfrey  Knelier        -  116 

^HAP.  I3t. — A  Development  of  Character,  and  a  long  Letter — a  Chap- 
ter, on  the  whole,  more  important  than  it  seems  ...  120 

Chap.  X^-^Being  a  short  Chapter,  containing  a  most  important  Event  129 

Chap.  XI. — Containing  more  than  any  other  Chapter  in  the  Second 

Book  of  this  History -        -        --  133 


BOOK  III. 

Chap.  I. — Wherein  the  History  makes  great  Progress  and  is  marked 

by  6ne  important  Event  in  Human  Life      -        -        -        -        -  149 

■Chap.  II.— Love— Parting— a  Death  Bed. — After  all  Human  Nature 
is  a  beautiful  Fabric  ;  and  even  its  Imperfections  are  not  odious 
to  him  who  has  studied  the  Science  of  its  Architecture,  and 
formed  a  reverent  Estimate  of  its  Creator    .....  160 

CHAp.Iir.— A  great  Change  of  Prospects 168 

Chap.  IV. — An  Episode — The  Son  of  the  Greatest  Man  who  (one  only 
excepted)  ever  rose  to  a  Throne,  but  by  no  means  of  the  Greatest 
'iAzxi  {%2i-<i^  ox\^  who  ever  existed 173 

CJhAP.  V. — In  which  the  Hero  shows  decision  on  niore  points  than  one 

— More  of  Isora's  character  is  developed     -         -         -         -         -181 

Chap.  VI. — An   Unexpected   Meeting— Conjecture   and  Anticipation  191 

9*"*-  VII.-— The  Events  of  a  Single  Night— Moments  make.|he  Hues 

in  which  Years  are  colored  -        -        -        •        .        .'       .        -194 


CONTENTS.  V 

BOOK  IV. 

PAGE 

Chap.  I. — A  Re-entrance  into  Life  through  the  Ebon  Gate — Affliction  205 

Chap.  II. — Ambitious  Projects    -- 210 

Chap.  III. — The  real  Actors  Spectators  of  the  false  ones        -        -       218 

Chap.  IV. — Paris — A  Female  Politician,  and  an  Ecclesiastical  one — 

Sundry  other  Matters  -  .......  220 

Chap.  V. — A  Meeting  of  Wits — Conversation  gone  out  to  Supper  in 

her  Dress  of  Velvet  and  Jewels 226 

Chap.  VI. — A  Court,  Courtiers,  and  a  King    .....       235 

Chap.  VII. — Reflections — A  Spiree^The  appearance  of  one  important 
in  the  History — A  Conversation  with   Madame  de  Balzac  highly 
satisfactory  and  cheering — A  Rencontre  with  a  cmious  old  Soldier 
— The  extinction  of  a  once  great  Luminary  ....  246 

Chap.  VIII. — In  which  there  is  reason  to  fear  that  Princes  are  not  in- 
variably free  from  Human  Peccadillos 260 

Chap.  IX. — A  Prince — an  Audience — and  a  Secret  Embassy   -        -       264 

Chap.  X. — Royal  Exertions  for  the  good  of  the  People        ...  271 

Chap.  XI. — An  Interview 276 


BOOK  V. 

Chap.  I.— A  Portrait 279 

Chap.  II. — The  entrance  into  Petersburgh — a  Rencontre  with  an  inquisi- 
tive and  mysterious  Stranger — Nothing  like  Travel         -         -         -  284 

Chap.  III. — The  Czar — the  Czarina — a  Feast  at  a  Russian  Nobleman's  289 

Chap.  IV. — Conversation  with  the  Czar — if  Cromwell  was  the  greatest 
man  (Caesar  excepted)  who  ever  rose  to  the  Supreme  Power,  Peter 
was  the  greatest  man  ever  born  to  it 293 

Chap.  V. — Return  to  Paris — Interview  with  B  -lingbroke — A  gallant  . 
Adventure — Affair  with   Dubois — Public   I^ife  is   a    Drama,   in 
which  private  Vices  generally  play  the  part  of  the  scene-shifters  298 

Chap.  VI. — A   long   Interval   of  Years — a   Change  of   Mind  and  its 

Causes 308 


VF  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  VI. 

PAGE 

Chap.  I.— The  Retreat 318 

Chap.  II.— The  Victory  - 322 

Chap.  III.— The  Hermit  of  the  Well 325 

Chap.  IV. — The   Solution  of  Many  Mysteries — a  dark  View  of  the 

Life  and  Nature  of  Man 336 

Chap.  V. — In  which  the  History  makes  a  great  Stride  towards  the 
final  Catastrophe — the  Return  to  England,  and  the  Visit  to  a 
Devotee       - 368 

Chap.  VI. — The  Retreat  of  a  celebrated  Man,  and  a  Visit  to  a  great 

Poet    -        - 375 

Chap.  VII.^ — The  Plot  approaches  its  DenouemcHt  -        -        -        -       385 

Chap.  VIII.— The  Catastrophe    -        -        -        -        -        •        '        '  40» 


DEDICATORY  EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  AULDJO,  Esq.,  &c. 

AT    NAPLES. 

London. 
My  Dear  Auldjo: 

Permit  me,  as  a  memento  of  the  pleasant  hours  we  passed  together,  and  the 
intimacy  we  formed,  by  the  winding  shores  and  the  rosy  seas  of  the  old  Parthe- 
nope,  to  dedicate  to  you  this  romance. — It  was  written  in,  perhaps,  the  happiest 
period  of  my  literary  life — when  success  began  to  brighten  up>on  my  labors,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  a  fine  thing  to  make  a  name.  Reputation,  like  all  possessions, 
fairer  in  the  hop)e  than  in  the  reality,  shone  before  me,  in  the  gloss  of  novelty — 
and  I  had  neither  felt  the  envy  it  excites,  the  weariness  it  occasions,  nor  (worse 
than  all)  that  coarse  and  painful  notoriety,  that  something  between  the  gossip 
and  the  slander,  which  attends  every  man  whose  writings  become  known — sur- 
rendering the  grateful  privacies  of  life  to 

The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day. 

In  short — ^yet  almost  a  boy — (for,  in  years  at  least,  I  was  little  more,  when 
"Pelham"  and  "The  Disowned"  were  conceived  and  composed),  and  full  of 
the  sanguine  arrogance  of  hof)e,  I  pictured  to  myself  far  greater  triumphs  ihan 
it  will  ever  be  mine  to  achieve :  and  never  did  architect  of  dreams  build  his  pyra- 
mid upon  (alas  !)  a  narrower  base,  or  a  more  crumbling  soil !  .  .  .  .  Time  cures 
us  effectually  of  these  self-conceits,  and  brings  us,  somewhat  harshly,  from  the  gay 
extravagance  of  confounding  the  much  that  we  design  with  the  little  that  we  can 
accomplish. 

' '  The  Disowned  "  and  ' '  Devereux  "  were  both  completed  in  retirement — and 
in  the  midst  of  metaphysical  studies  and  investigations,  varied  and  miscellaneous 
enough,  if  not  very  deeply  conned. — At  that  time  I  was  indeed  engaged  in  pre- 
paring for  the  press  a  Philosophical  Work,  which  I  had  afterwards  the  good 
sense  to  postpone  to  a  riper  age  and  a  more  sobered  mind.  But  the  effect  of  these 
studies  is  somewhat  prejudicially  visible  in  both  the  romances  I  have  referred  to; 
and  the  external  and  dramatic  colorings  which  belong  to  fiction  are  too  often  for- 
saken for  the  inward  and  subtle  analysis  of  motives,  characters,  and  actions. — 
The  workman  was  not  sufficiently  master  of  his  art  to  forbear  the  vanity  of 
parading  the  wheels  of  the  mechanism,  and  was  too  fond  of  calling  attention  to 
the  minute  and  tedious  operations  by  which  the  movements  were  to  be  p)€rformed, 
and  the  result  obtained.  I  believe  that  an  author  is  generally  pleased  with  his 
work,  less  in  proportion  as  it  fulfils  the  idea  with  which  he  commenced  it.  He  is 
rarely,  perhaps,  an  accurate  judge  how  far  the  execution  is  in  itself  faulty  or  meri- 
torious— but  he  judges  with  tolerable  success  how  far  it  accomplishes  the  end  and 
objects  of  the  conception. — He  is  pleased  with  his  work,  in  short,  according  as  he 
can  say,  "This  has  expressed  what  I  meant  to  convey." — But  the  reader,  who  is 
not  in  the  secret  of  the  author's  original  design,  usually  views  the  work  through  a 
different  medium — and  is  jjerhaps,  in  this,  the  wiser  critic  of  the  two ;  for  the 
Book  that  wanders  the  most  from  the  idea  which  orig^inated  it,  may  often  be  better 
than  that  which  is  rigidly  limited  to  the  unfolding  and  denouement  of  a  single 
conception.  If  we  accept  this  solution,  we  may  be  enabled  to  understand  why  an 
author  not  unfrequently  makes  favorites  of  some  of  his  productions  most  con- 
demned by  the  public.  For  my  own  part,  I  remember  that  "  Devereux*'  pleased 
me  better  than  "Pelham"  or  "The  Disowned,"  because  the  execution  more 
exactly  corresponded  with  the  design.     It  expressed  with  tolerable  fidelity  what  I 


iv  DEDICATORY   EPISTLE. 

meant  it  to  express.  That  was  a  happy  age,  my  dear  Auldjo,  when,  on  finishing: 
a  work,  we  could  feel  contented  with  our  labor,  and  fancy  we  had  done  our  best  1 
Now,  alas  !  I  have  learned  enough  of  the  wonders  of  the  Art  to  recognize  all  the 
deficiencies  of  the  Disciple  ;  and  to  know  that  no  author,  worth  the  reading — can 
ever  in  one  single  work  do  half  of  which  he  is  capable. 

What  man  ever  wrote  anything  really  good,  who  did  not  feel  that  he  had  the 
ability  to  write  something  better  ? — Writing,  after  all,  is  a  cold  and  a  coarse  inter- 
preter of  thought. — How  much  of  the  imagination — how  much  of  the  intellect, 
evaporates  and  is  lost  while  we  seek  to  embody  it  in  words  ! — Man  made  language, 
and  God  the  genius.  Nothing  short  of  an  eternity  could  enable  men  who 
imagine,  think,  and  feel,  to  express  all  they  have  imagined,  thought,  and  felt. 
Immortality,  the  spiritual  desire,  is  the  intellectual  necessity. 

In  "Devereux,"  I  wished  to  portray  a  man  flourishing  in  the  last  century,  with 
the  train  of  mind  and  sentiment  peculiar  to  the  present ; — describing  a  life,  and 
not  its  dramatic  epitome,  the  historical  characters  introduced  are  not  closely 
woven  with  the  main  plot,  like  those  in  the  fictions  of  Sir  Walter  Scott — but  are 
rather,  like  the  narrative  romances  of  an  earlier  school,  designed  to  relieve  the 
predominant  interest,  and  give  a  greater  air  of  truth  and  actuality  to  the  sup- 
posed memoir.  It  is  a  fiction  which  deals  less  with  the  Picturesque  than  the 
Real. — Of  the  principal  character  thus  introduced  (the  celebrated  and  graceful, 
but  charlatanic,  Bolingbroke)  I  still  think  that  my  sketch,  upon  the  whole,  is  sub- 
stantially just.  We  must  not  judge  of  the  politicians  of  one  age  by  the  lights  of 
another.  Happily  we  now  demand  in  a  statesman  a  desire  for  other  aims  than 
his  own  advancement ;  but,  at  that  jieriod,  ambition  was  almost  universally 
selfish — the  Statesman  was  yet  a  Courtier — a  man  whose  very  destiny  it  was  to  in- 
trigue, to  plot,  to  glitter,  to  deceive.  It  is  in  proportion  as  politics  have  ceased  to 
be  a  secret  science — in  proportion  as  courts  are  less  to  be  flattered,  and  tools  to  be 
managed,  that  {xjliticians  have  become  useful  and  honest  men  :  and  the  statesman 
now  directs  a  people,  where  once  he  outwitted  an  antechamber.  Compare  Boling- 
broke— not  with  the  men  and  by  the  rules  of  this  day — but  with  the  men  and  by 
the  rules  of  the  last.  He  will  lose  nothing  in  comparison  with  a  Walpole,  with  a 
Marlborough  on  the  one  side — with  an  Oxford  or  a  Swift  upon  the  other. 

And  now,  my  dear  Auldjo — you  have  had  enough  of  my  egotisms.  As  our 
works  grow  up — like  old  parents,  we  grow  garrulous,  and  love  to  recur  to  the 
happier  days  of  their  childhood  ; — we  talk  over  the  pleasant  parin  they  cost  us  in 
their  rearing — and  memory  renews  the  season  of  dreams  and  hopes  ;  we  speak  of 
their  faults  as  of  things  past — of  their  merits  as  of  things  enduring : — we  are 
proud  to  see  them  still  living,  and,  after  many  a  harsh  ordeal  and  rude  assault, 
keeping  a  certain  station  in  the  world  ; — we  hoped  perhaps  something  better  for 
them  in  their  cradle — but,  jis  it  is,  we  have  good  cause  to  be  contented.  You,  a 
fellow-author,  and  one  whose  spirited  and  charming  sketches  embody  so  much  of 
personal  adventure,  and  therefore  so  much  connect  themselves  with  associations 
of  real  life  as  well  as  of  the  studious  closet ;  you  know,  and  must  feel,  with  me, 
that  these  our  books  are  a  part  of  us,  bone  of  our  bone,  and  flesh  of  our  flesh  ! 
They  treasure  up  the  thoughts  which  stirred  us — the  affections  which  warmed  us, 
years  ago — they  are  the  mirrors  of  how  much  of  what  we  were !  To  the  world, 
they  are  but  as  a  certain  number  of  pages — good  or  bad — tedious  or  diverting; 
but  to  ourselves,  the  authors,  they  are  as  marks  in  the  wild  maze  of  life  by  which 
we  can  retrace  our  steps — and  be  with  our  youth  cigain.  What  would  I  not  give 
to  feel  as  I  felt — to  hope  as  I  hoped — to  believe  as  I  believed — when  this  work 
was  first  launched  upon  the  world !  But  time  gives,  while  it  takes  away — and, 
amongst  its  recompenses  for  many  losses,  are  the  memories  I  referred  to  in  com- 
mencing this  letter,  and  gratefully  revert  to  at  its  close.— From  the  land  of  cloud 
and  the  life  of  toil,  I  turn  to  that  golden  clime  and  the  happy  indolence  that  so 
well  accords  with  it — and  hope  once  more,  ere  I  die,  with  a  companion  whose 
knowledge  can  recall  the  past,  and  whose  gayety  can  enliven  the  present,  to  visit 
the  Disburied  City  of  Pompeii — and  see  the  moonlight  sparkle  over  the  waves  of 
Naples.    Adieu,  my  dear  Auldjo, 

And  believe  me 

Your  obliged  and  attached  friend, 

E.  B.  LYTTON. 


DEVEREUX. 


BOOK  I. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Of  the  Hero's  Birth  and  Parentage.    Nothing  can  Differ  more  from  the  End 
of  Things  than  their  Beginning. 

My  grandfather,  Sir  Arthur  Devereux  (peace  be  with  his 
ashes  !)  was  a  noble  old  knight  and  cavalier,  possessed  of  a 
property  sufficiently  large  to  have  maintained  in  full  dignity 
half  a  dozen  peers — such  as  peers  have  been  since  the  days  of 
the  First  James.  Nevertheless,  my  grandfather  loved  the 
equestrian  order  better  than  the  patrician,  rejected  all  offers 
of  advancement,  and  left  his  posterity  no  titles  but  those  to  his 
estate. 

Sir  Arthur  had  two  children  by  wedlock — both  sons  :  at  his 
death,  my  father,  the  youager,  bade  adieu  to  the  old  hall  and 
his  only  brother,  prayed  to  the  grim  portraits  of  his  ancestors 
to  inspire  him,  and  set  out — to  join  as  a  volunteer  the  armies 
of  that  Louis,  afterwards  surnamed  le  p^rand.  Of  him  I  shall 
say  but  little  ;  the  life  of  a  soldier  has  only  two  events  worth 
recording,  his  first  campaign  and  his  last.  My  uncle  did  as 
his  ancestors  had  done  before  him,  and,  cheap  as  the  dignity 
had  grown,  went  up  to  court  to  be  knighted  by  Charles  II. 
He  was  so  delighted  with  what  he  saw  of  the  metropolis  that 
he  forswore  all  intention  of  leaving  it,  took  to  Sedley  and 
champagne,  flirted  with  Nell  Gwynne,  lost  double  the  value  of 
his  brother's  portion  at  one  sitting  to  the  chivalrous  Grammont, 
wrote  a  comedy  corrected  by  Etherege,  and  took  a  wife  recom- 
mended by  Rochester.  The  wife  brought  him  a  child  six 
months  after  marriage,  and  the  infant  was  born  on  the  same 
day  the  comedy  was  acted.  Luckily  for  the  honor  of  the 
house,  my  uncle  shared  the  fate  of  Plimneus,  king  of  Sicyon, 
and  all  the  offspring  he  ever  had  (that  is  to  say,  the  child  and 

XI 


12     ■  DEVEREUX. 

the  play),  "died  as  soon  as  they  were  born."  My  uncle  was 
now  only  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  his  wife — that  remaining 
treasure,  whose  readiness  to  oblige  him  had  been  so  miracu- 
lously evinced.  She  saved  him  the  trouble  of  long  cogitation — 
an  exercise  of  intellect  to  which  he  was  never  too  ardently 
inclined.  There  was  a  gentleman  of  the  court,  celebrated  for 
his  sedateness  and  solemnity  ;  my  aunt  was  piqued  into  emu- 
lating Orpheus,  and,  six  weeks  after  her  confinement,  she  put 
this  rock  into  motion — they  eloped.  Poor  gentleman  ! — it 
must  have  been  a  severe  trial  of  patience  to  a  man  never  known 
before  to  trangress  the  very  slowest  of  all  possible  walks — to 
have  had  two  events  of  the  most  rapid  nature  happen  to  him 
in  the  same  week  :  scarcely  had  he  recovered  the  shock  of 
being  run  away  with  by  my  aunt,  before,  terminating  for  ever 
his  vagrancies,  he  was  run  through  by  my  uncle.  The  wits 
made  an  epigram  upon  the  event,  and  my  uncle,  who  was  as 
bold  as  a  lion  at  the  point  of  a  swoid,  was,  to  speak  frankly, 
terribly  disconcerted  by  the  point  of  a  jest.  He  retired  to  the 
country  in  a  fit  of  disgust  and  gout.  Here  his  natural  goodness 
soon  recovered  the  effects  of  the  artificial  atmosphere  to  which 
it  had  been  exposed,  and  he  solaced  himself  by  righteously 
governing  domains  worthy  of  a  prince,  for  the  mortifications 
he  had  experienced  in  the  dishonorable  career  of  a  courtier. 

Hitherto  I  have  spoken  somewhat  slightingly  of  my  uncle, 
and  in  his  dissipation  he  deserved  it,  for  he  was  both  too  honest 
and  too  simple  to  shine  in  that  galaxy  of  prostituted  genius  of 
which  Charles  II.  was  the  centre.  But  in  retirement  he  was 
no  longer  the  same  person  ;  and  I  do  not  think  that  the 
elements  of  human  nature  could  have  furnished  forth  a  more 
amiable  character  than  Sir  William  Devereux  presiding  at 
Christmas  over  the  merriment  of  his  great  hall. 

Good  old  man  !  his  very  defects  were  what  we  loved  best  in 
him — vanity  was  so  mingled  with  good  nature  that  it  became 
graceful,  and  we  reverenced  one  the  most,  while  we  most 
smiled  at  the  other. 

One  peculiarity  had  he,  which  the  age  he  had  lived  in  and 
his  domestic  history  rendered  natural  enough,  viz.,  an  exceed- 
ing distaste  to  the  matrimonial  state :  early  marriages  were 
misery,  imprudent  marriages  idiotism,  and  marriage,  at  the 
best,  he  was  wont  to  say,  with  a  kindling  eye  and  a  heightened 
color,  marriage  at  the  best — was  the  devil !  Yet  it  must  not 
be  supposed  that  Sir  William  Devereux  was  an  ungallant  man 
On  the  contrary,  never  did  the  /f(fau  sexe  have  a  humbler  or 
more  devoted  servant.     As  nothing  in  his  estimation  was  less 


DEVEREUX.  13 

becoming  to  a  wise  man  than  matrimony,  so  nothing  was  more 
ornamental  than  flirtation. 

He  had  the  old  man's  weakness,  garrulity  ;  and  he  told  the 
wittiest  stories  in  the  world,  without  omitting  anything  in  them 
but  the  point.  This  omission  did  not  arise  from  the  want 
either  of  memory  or  humor  ;  but  solely  from  a  deficiency  in 
the  malice  natural  to  all  jesters.  He  could  not  persuade  his 
lips  to  repeat  a  sarcasm  hurting  even  the  dead  or  the  ungrate- 
ful ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  drop  of  gall  which  should  have 
given  zest  to  the  story,  the  milk  of  human  kindness  broke  its 
barrier,  despite  of  himself — and  washed  it  away.  He  was  a 
fine  wreck,  a  little  prematurely  broken  by  dissipation,  but  not 
perhaps  the  less  interesting  on  that  account ;  tall,  and  some- 
what of  the  jovial  old  English  girth,  with  a  face  where  good 
nature  and  good  living  mingled  their  smiles  and  glow.  He 
wore  the  garb  of  twenty  years  back,  and  was  curiously  particular 
in  the  choice  of  his  silk  stockings.  Between  you  and  me,  he 
was  not  a  little  vain  of  his  leg,  and  a  compliment  on  that  score 
was  always  sure  of  a  gracious  reception. 

The  solitude  of  my  uncle's  household  was  broken  by  an 
invasion  of  three  boys — none  of  the  quietest ;  and  their  mother, 
who,  the  gentlest  and  saddest  of  womankind,  seemed  to  follow 
them,  the  emblem  of  that  primeval  Silence  from  which  all  noise 
was  born.  These  three  boys  were  my  two  brothers  and  myself. 
My  father,  who  had  conceived  a  strong  personal  attachment 
for  Louis  Quaiorze,  never  quitted  his  service,  and  the  great 
King  repaid  him  by  orders  and  favors  without  number ;  he 
died  of  wounds  received  in  battle — a  Count  and  a  Marshal, 
full  of  renown,  and  destitute  of  money.  He  had  married 
twice  :  his  first  wife,  who  died  without  issue,  was  a  daughter  of 
the  noble  house  of  La  Tremouille — his  second,  our  mother, 
was  of  a  younger  branch  of  the  English  race  of  Howard. 
Brought  up  in  her  native  country,  and  influenced  by  a  primitive 
and  retired  education,  she  never  loved  that  gay  land  which  her 
husband  had  adopted  as  his  own.  Upon  his  death,  she 
hastened  her  return  to  England,  and  refusing,  with  somewhat 
of  honorable  pride,  the  magnificent  pension  which  Louis  wished 
to  settle  upon  the  widow  of  his  favorite,  came  to  throw  herself 
and  her  children  upon  those  affections  which  she  knew  they 
were  entitled  to  claim. 

My  uncle  was  unaffectedly  rejoiced  to  receive  us. — To  say 
nothing  of  his  love  for  my  father,  and  his  pride  at  the  honors 
the  latter  had  won  to  their  ancient  house — the  good  gentleman 
was  very  well  pleased  with  the  idea  of  obtaining  four  new  Us*- 


■  14  DEVEREUX. 

teners,  out  of  whom  he  might  select  an  heir,  and  he  soon  grew 
as  fond  of  us  as  we  were  of  him.  At  the  time  of  our  new  set- 
tlement, I  had  attained  the  age  of  twelve;  my  second  brother 
(we  were  twins)  was  born  an  hour  after  me;  my  third  was  about 
fifteen  months  younger.  I  had  never  been  the  favorite  of  the 
three.  In  the  first  place,  my  brothers  (the youngest  especially) 
were  uncommonly  handsome,  and,  at  most,  I  was  but  tolerably 
good-looking  ;  in  the  second  place,  my  mind  was  considered  as 
much  inferior  to  theirs  as  my  body — I  was  idle  and  dull,  sullen 
and  haughty — the  only  wit  1  ever  displayed  was  in  sneering  at 
my  friends,'and  the  only  spirit,  in  quarrelling  with  my  twin 
brother ;  so  said  or  so  thought  all  who  saw  us  in  our  childhood; 
and  it  follows,  therefore,  that  I  was  either  very  unamiable  or 
very  much  misunderstood. 

■  But,  to  the  astonishment  of  myself  and  my  relations,  my  fate 
was  now  to  be  reversed,  and  I  was  no  sooner  settled  at  Devereux 
Court,  than  I  became  evidently  the  object  of  Sir  William's  pre- 
eminent attachment.  The  fact  was,  that  I  really  liked  both  the 
knight  and  his  stories  better  than  my  brothers  did  ;  and  the 
very  first  time  I  had  seen  my  uncle,  I  had  commented  on  the 
beauty  of  his  stocking,  and  envied  the  constitution  of  his  leg ; 
from  such  trifles  spring  affection  !  In  truth,  our  attachment  to 
each  other  so  increased  that  we  grew  to  be  constantly  together; 
and  while  my  childish  anticipations  of  the  world  made  me  love 
to  listen  to  stories  of  courts  and  courtiers,  my  uncle  returned  the 
compliment,  by  declaring  of  my  wit,  as  the  angler  declared  of 
the  River  Lea,  that  one  would  find  enough  in  it,  if  one  would 
but  angle  sufficiently  long. 

Nor  was  this  all ;  my  uncle  and  myself  were  exceedingly  like 
the  waters  of  Alpheus  and  Arethusa — nothing  was  thrown  into 
the  one  without  being  seen  very  shortly  afterwards  floating  upon 
the  other.  Every  witticism  or  legend  Sir  William  imparted  to 
me  (and  some,  to  say  truth,  were  a  little  tinged  with  the  licen- 
tiousness of  the  times  he  had  lived  in),  I  took  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  retailing,  whatever  might  be  the  audience ;  and  few 
boys,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  can  boast  of  having  so  often  as  my- 
self excited  the  laughter  of  the  men  and  the  blushes  of  the 
women.  This  circumstance,  while  it  aggravated  my  own  van- 
ity, delighted  my  uncle's ;  and  as  I  was  always  getting  into 
scrapes  on  his  account,  so  he  was  perpetually  bound,  by  duty, 
to  defend  me  from  the  charges  of  which  he  was  the  cause.  No 
man  defends  another  long  without  loving  him  the  better  for  it; 
and  perhaps  Sir  William  Devereux  and  his  eldest  nephew  were 
the  only  allies  in  the  world  who  had  no  jealousy  of  each  other. 


ilEVEkEtJX.  1^ 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  Family  Consultation. — A  Priest,  and  an  Era  in  Life. 

"You  are  ruining  the  children,  my  dear  Sir  William,"  said  my 
gentle  mother,  one  day,  when  I  had  been  particularly  witty,  "  and 
the  Abbe  Montreuil  declares  it  absolutely  necessary  that  they 
should  go  to  school." 

"  To  school !"  said  my  uncle,  who  was  caressing  his  right  leg, 
as  it  lay  over  his  left  knee — "  to  school,  Madam  !  you  are  jok- 
ing.    What  for,  pray  ?  " 

"  Instruction,  my  dear  Sir  William,"  replied  my  mother. 

"  Ah,  ah  ;  I  forgot  that;  true,  true  !  "said  my  uncle  despond- 
ingly,  and  there  was  a  pause.  My  mother  counted  her  rosary; 
my  uncle  sank  into  a  reverie  ;  my  twin  brother  pinched  my  leg 
under  the  table,  to  which  I  replied  by  a  silent  kick  :  and  my 
youngest  fixed  his  large,  dark,  speaking  eyes  upon  a  picture  of 
the  Holy  Family,  which  hung  opposite  to  him. 

My  uncle  broke  silence  ;  he  did  it  with  a  start. 

"  Od's  fish.  Madam," — (my  uncle  dressed  his  oaths,  like  him- 
self, a  little  after  the  example  of  Charles  II.) — "  od's  fish.  Madam. 
I  have  thought  of  a  better  plan  than  that ;  they  shall  have  in- 
struction without  going  to  school  for  it." 

"  And  how.  Sir  William  ?  " 

"  I  will  instruct  them  myself,  Madam,"  and  Sir  William 
slapped  the  calf  of  the  leg  he  was  caressing. 

My  mother  smiled. 

"Ay,  Madam,  you  may  smile;  but  I  and  ray  Lord  Dorset 
were  the  best  scholars  of  the  age  ;  you  shall  read  my  play." 

"Do,  mother,"  said  I,  "read  the  play.  Shall  I  tell  her  some 
of  the  jests  in  it,  uncle?" 

My  mother  shook  her  head  in  anticipative  horror,  and  raised 
her  finger  reprovingly.  My  uncle  said  nothing,  but  winked  at 
me  ;  I  understood  the  signal,  and  was  about  to  begin,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  the  Abbe  Montreuil  entered.  My  uncle  re- 
leased his  right  leg,  and  my  jest  was  cut  off.  Nobody  ever  in- 
spired a  more  dim,  religious  awe  than  the  Abbe  Montreuil.  The 
priest  entered  with  a  smile.  My  mother  hailed  the  entrance  of 
an  ally.  .  *     ;        r 

"  Father,"  said  she,  rising,  "  I  have  just  represented  to  my 
good  brother  the  necessity  of  sending  my  sons  to  school  ;  he 
has  proposed  an  alternative  which  I  will  leave  you  to  discuss 
with  him.*' 


X^  DtVEREUX. 

"  And  what  is  it  ? "  said  Montreuil,  sliding  into  a  chair,  and 
patting  Gerald's  head  with  a  benignant  air. 

'*  To  educate  them  himself,"  answered  my  mother,  with  a  sort 
of  satirical  gravity.  My  uncle  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat,  as  if, 
for  the  first  time,  he  saw  something  ridiculous  in  the  proposal. 

The  smile,  immediately  fading  from  the  thin  lips  of  the  priest, 
gave  way  to  an  expression  of  respectful  approbation.  "An  ad- 
mirable plan,"  said  he  slowly,  "but  liable  to  some  little  excep- 
tions, which  Sir  William  will  allow  me  to  point  out." 

My  mother  called  to  us,  and  we  left  the  room  with  her.  The 
next  time  we  saw  my  uncle,  the  priest's  reasonings  had  pre- 
vailed. The  following  week  we  all  three  went  to  school.  My 
father  had  been  a  Catholic,  my  mother  was  of  the  same  creed, 
and  consequently  we  were  brought  up  in  that  unpopular  faith. 
But  my  uncle,  whose  religion  had  been  sadly  undermined  at 
court,  was  a  terrible  caviller  at  the  holy  mysteries  of  Catholicism  ; 
and  while  his  friends  termed  him  a  Protestant,  his  enemies  hinted, 
falsely  enough,  that  he  was  a  sceptic.  When  Montreuil  first 
followed  us  to  Devereux  Court,  many  and  bitter  were  the  little 
jests  my  worthy  uncle  had  provided  for  his  reception  ;  and  he 
would  shake  his  head  with  a  notable  archness  whenever  he  heard 
our  reverential  description  of  the  expected  guest.  But,  some- 
how or  other,  no  sooner  had  he  seen  the  priest,  than  all  his 
purposed  railleries  deserted  him.  Not  a  single  witticism  came 
to  his  assistance,  and  the  calm,  smooth  face  of  the  ecclesiastic 
seemed  to  operate  upon  the  fierce  resolves  of  the  facetious 
knight  in  the  same  manner  as  the  human  eye  is  supposed  to  awe 
into  impotence  the  malignant  intentions  of  the  ignobler  animals. 
Yet  nothing  could  be  blander  than  the  demeanor  of  the  Abbe 
Montreuil — nothing  more  worldly,  in  their  urbanity,  than  his 
manner  and  address.  His  garb  was  as  little  clerical  as  possible, 
his  conversation  rather  familiar  than  formal,  and  he  invariably 
listened  to  every  syllable  the  good  knight  uttered,  with  a  coun- 
tenance and  mien  of  the  most  attentive  respect. 

What  then  was  the  charm  by  which  this  singular  man  never 
failed  to  obtain  an  ascendancy,  in  some  measure  allied  with  fear, 
over  all  in  whose  company  he  was  thrown  ?  That  was  a  secret 
my  uncle  never  could  solve,  and  which,  only  in  later  life,  I 
myself  was  able  to  discover.  It  was  partly  by  the  magic  of  an 
extraordinary  and  powerful  mind,  partly  by  an  expression  of 
manner,  if  I  may  use  such  a  phrase,  that  seemed  to  sneer  most, 
when  most  it  affected  to  respect ;  and  partly  by  an  air  like  that 
of  a  man  never  exactly  at  his  ease  ;  not  that  he  was  shy,  or  un- 
graceful, or  even  taciturn — no!  it  was  an  indescribably  eq** 


pEVEREUX.  17 

bafrassnlent,  resembling  that  of  one  playing  a  part,  familiar  to 
him,  indeed,  but  somewhat  distasteful.  This  embarrassment, 
however,  was  sufficient  to  be  contagious,  and  to  confuse  that 
dignity  in  others  which,  strangely  enough,  never  forsook  himself. 

He  was  of  low  origin,  but  his  address  and  appearance  did 
not  betray  his  birth.  Pride  suited  his  mien  better  than  famil- 
iarity— and  his  countenance,  rigid,  thoughtful,  and  cold,  even 
through  smiles,  in  expression  was  strikingly  commanding.  In 
person,  he  was  slightly  above  the  middle  standard  ;  and  had 
not  the  texture  of  his  frame  been  remarkably  hard,  wiry,  and 
muscular,  the  total  absence  of  all  superfluous  flesh  would  have 
given  the  lean  gauntness  of  his  figure  an  appearance  of  almost 
spectral  emaciation.  In  reality,  his  age  did  not  exceed  twenty- 
eight  years  ;  but  his  high,  broad  forehead  was  already  so  marked 
with  line  and  furrow,  his  hair  was  so  staid  and  quiet,  his  figure 
so  destitute  of  the  roundness  and  elasticity  of  youth,  that  his 
appearance  always  impressed  the  beholder  with  the  involuntary 
idea  of  a  man  more  considerably  advanced  in  life.  Abstemi- 
ous to  habitual  penance,  and  regular  to  mechanical  exactness  in 
his  frequent  and  severe  devotions,  he  was  as  little  inwardly  ad- 
dicted to  the  pleasures  and  pursuits  of  youth,  as  he  was  exter- 
nally possessed  of  its  freshness  and  its  bloom. 

Nor  was  gravity  with  him  that  unmeaning  veil  to  imbecility, 
which  Rochefoucauld  has  so  happily  called  "  the  mystery  of 
the  body."  The  variety  and  depth  of  his  learning  fully  sus- 
tained the  respect  which  his  demeanor  insensibly  created.  To 
say  nothing  of  his  lore  in  the  dead  tongues,  he  possessed  a 
knowledge  of  the  principal  European  languages  besides  his  own, 
viz.,  English,  Italian,  German,  and  Spanish,  not  less  accurate 
and  little  less  fluent  than  that  of  a  native  ;  and  he  had  not  only 
gained  the  key  to  these  various  coffers  of  intellectual  wealth, 
but  he  had  also  possessed  himself  of  their  treasures.  He  had 
been  educated  at  St.  Omer ;  and,  young  as  he  was,  he  had  al- 
ready acquired  no  inconsiderable  reputation  among  his  brethren 
of  that  illustrous  and  celebrated  Order  of  Jesus  which  has  pro- 
duced some  of  the  worst  and  some  of  the  best  men  that  the 
Christian  world  has  ever  known — which  has,  in  its  successful 
zeal  for  knowledge,  and  the  circulation  of  mental  light,  be- 
queathed a  vast  depth  of  gratitude  to  posterity  ;  but  which,  un- 
happily encouraging  certain  scholastic  doctrines,  that  by  a  mind 
at  once  subtle  and  vicious  can  be  easily  perverted  into  the 
sanction  of  the  most  dangerous  and  systematized  immorality, 
has  already  drawn  upon  its  professors  an  almost  universal  odium. 

So  highly  established  was  the  good  name  of  Montrcuil  that 


fS  DEVEREUX. 

when,  three  years  prior  to  the  time  of  which  I  now  speak,  he 
had  been  elected  to  the  office  he  held  in  our  family,  it  was  scarcely 
deemed  a  less  fortunate  occurrence  for  us  to  gain  so  learned 
and  so  pious  a  preceptor,  than  it  was  for  him  to  acquire  a  situa- 
tion of  such  trust  and  confidence  in  the  household  of  a  Marshal 
of  France,  and  the  special  favorite  of  Louis  XIV. 

It  was  pleasant  enough  to  mark  the  gradual  ascendancy  he 
gained  over  my  uncle;  and  the  timorous  dislike  which  the 
good  knight  entertained  for  him,  yet  struggled  to  conceal.  Per- 
haps that  was  the  only  time  in  his  life  in  which  Sir  William 
Devereux  was  a  hypocrite. 

Enough  of  the  priest  at  present — I  return  to  his  charge.  To 
school  we  went ;  our  parting  with  our  uncle  was  quite  pathetic — 
mine  in  especial.  "Harkye,  Sir  Count,"  whispered  he  (I  bore 
my  father's  title),  "  harkye,  don't  mind  what  the  old  priest  tells 
you  ;  your  real  man  of  wit  never  wants  the  musty  lessons  of 
schools  in  order  to  make  a  figure  in  the  world.  Don't  cramp 
your  genius,  my  boy  ;  read  over  my  play,  and  honest  George 
Etherege's  '  Man  of  Mode  ';  they'll  keep  your  spirits  alive,  after 
dozing  over  these  old  pages  which  Homer  ( good  soul !  ) 
dozed  over  before.  God  bless  you,  my  child — write  to  me- — 
no  one,  not  even  your  mother,  shall  see  your  letters — and — 
and  be  sure,  my  fine  fellow,  that  you  don't  fag  too  hard.  The 
glass  of  life  is  the  best  book — and  one's  natural  wit  the  only 
diamond  that  can  write  legibly  on  it." 

Such  were  my  uncle's  parting  admonitions  ;  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that,  coupled  with  the  dramatic  gifts  alluded  to,  they 
were  likely  to  be  of  infinite  service  to  the  debutant  for  academ- 
ical honors.  In  fact.  Sir  William  Devereux  was  deeply  im- 
pregnated with  the  notion  of  his  time,  that  ability  and  inspira- 
tion were  the  same  thing,  and  that,  unless  you  were  thoroughly 
idle,  you  could  not  be  thoroughly  a  genius.  I  verily  believe 
that  he  thought  wisdom  got  its  gems,  as  Abu  Zeid  al  Hassan* 
declares  some  Chinese  philosophers  thought  oysters  got  their 
pearls — viz.,  by  gaping! 

»  In  his  Commentary  on  the  account  of  Chioa  by  two  Travellers. 


GEVEREtJX.  10 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  Change  in  Conduct  and  in  Character — Our  evil  Passions  will  sometimes 
produce  good  Effects  ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  an  Alteration  for  the  better 
in  Manners  will,  not  unfrequently,  have  amongst  its  Causes  a  little  Cor- 
ruption of  Mind  ;  for  the  Feelings  are  so  blended,  that  in  suppressing 
those  disagreeable  to  others,  we  often  suppress  those  which  are  amiable 
in  themselves. 

My  twin  brother,  Gerald,  was  a  tall,  strong,  handsome  boy, 
blessed  with  a  great  love  for  the  orthodox  academical  studies, 
and  extraordinary  quickness  of  ability.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
indolent  by  nature,  in  things  which  were  contrary  to  his  taste — 
fond  of  pleasure — and,  amidst  all  his  personal  courage,  ran  a 
certain  vein  of  irresolution,  which  rendered  it  easy  for  a  cool 
and  determined  mind  to  awe  or  to  persuade  him.  I  cannot 
help  thinking,  too,  that,  clever  as  he  was,  there  was  something 
commonplace  in  the  cleverness  ;  and  that  his  talent  was  of  that 
mechanical,  yet  quick,  nature,  which  makes  wonderful  boys,  but 
mediocre  men.  In  any  other  family  he  would  have  been  con- 
sidered the  beauty — in  ours  he  was  thought  the  genius. 

My  youngest  brother,  Aubrey,  was  of  a  very  different  dispo- 
sition of  mind  and  frame  of  body  ;  thoughtful,  gentle,  suscep- 
tible, acute  ;  with  an  uncertain  bravery,  like  a  woman's,  and  a 
taste  for  reading,  that  varied  with  the  caprice  of  every  hour. 
He  was  the  beauty  of  the  three,  and  my  mother's  favorite. 
Never,  indeed,  have  I  seen  the  countenance  of  man  so  perfect, 
so  glowingly,  yet  delicately  handsome,  as  that  of  Aubrey  Dever- 
eux.  Locks  soft,  glossy,  and  twining  into  ringlets,  fell  in  dark 
profusion  over  a  brow  whiter  than  marble  ;  his  eyes  were  black 
and  tender  as  a  Georgian  girl's  ;  his  lips,  his  teeth,  the  contour 
of  his  face,  were  all  cast  in  the  same  feminine  and  faultless 
mould;  his  hands  would  have  shamed  those  of  Madame  de  la 
Tisseur,  whose  lover  offered  six  thousand  marks  to  any  Euro- 
pean who  could  wear  her  glove  ;  and  his  figure  would  have 
made  Titania  give  up  her  Henchman,  and  the  King  of  the 
Fairies  be  anything  but  pleased  with  the  exchange. 

Such  were  my  two  brothers  ;  or,  rather  (so  far  as  the  internal 
qualities  are  concerned),  such  they  seemed  to  me  ;  for  it  is  a 
singular  fact  that  we  never  judge  of  our  near  kindred  so  well 
as  we  judge  of  others  ;  and  I  appeal  to  any  one,  whether,  of  all 
people  by  whom  he  has  been  mistaken,  he  has  not  been  most 
often  mistaken  by  those  with  whom  he  was  brought  up  ! 

I  had  always  loved  Aubrey,  but  they  had  not  suffered  him  to  love 
tM ;  and  we  had  been  so  little  together  that  we  had  in  commoQ 


20  DEVEkEUX. 

none  of  those  childish  remembrances  which  serve,  more  power- 
fully than  all  else  in  later  life,  to  cement  and  soften  affection. 
In  fact,  I  was  the  scapegoat  of  the  family.  What  I  must  have 
been  in  early  childhood,  I  cannot  tell — but,  before  I  was  ten 
years  old,  I  was  the  object  of  all  the  despondency  and  evil  fore- 
bodings of  my  relations.  My  father  said  I  laughed  at  la  gloire 
et  le  grand  monarque,  the  very  first  time  he  attempted  to  explain 
to  me  the  value  of  the  one  and  the  greatness  of  the  other.  The 
countess  said  I  had  neither  my  father's  eye,  nor  her  own  smile — 
that  I  was  slow  at  my  letters,  and  quick  with  my  tongue  ;  and, 
throughout  the  whole  house,  nothing  was  so  favorite  a  topic  as 
the  extent  of  my  rudeness,  and  the  venom  of  my  repartee. 
Montreuil,  on  his  entrance  into  our  family,  not  only  fell  in  with, 
but  favored  and  fostered,  the  reigning  humor  against  me  ; 
whether  from  that  divide  etimpera  system,  which  was  so  grateful 
to  his  temper,  or  from  the  mere  love  of  meddling  and  intrigue, 
which  in  him,  as  in  Alberoni,  attached  itself  equally  to  petty  as 
to  large  circles,  was  not  then  clearly  apparent  ;  it  was  only  cer- 
tain that  he  fomented  the  dissensions  and  widened  the  breach 
between  my  brothers  and  myself. — Alas  !  after  all,  I  believe  my 
sole  crime  was  my  candor.  I  had  a  spirit  of  frankness,  which 
no  fear  could  tame,  and  my  vengeance  for  any  infantine  pun- 
ishment was  in  speaking  veraciously  of  my  punishers.  Never 
tell  me  of  the  pang  of  falsehood  to  the  slandered  :  nothing  is 
so  agonizing  to  the  fine  skin  of  vanity  as  the  application  of  a 
rough  truth  ! 

As  I  grew  older,  I  saw  my  power,  and  indulged  it ;  and,  be- 
ing scolded  for  sarcasm,  I  was  flattered  into  believing  I  had 
wit ;  so  I  punned  and  jested,  lampooned  and  satirised,  till  I 
was  as  much  a  torment  to  others  as  I  was  tormented  myself. 
The  secret  of  all  this  was  that  I  was  unhappy.  Nobody  loved 
me — I  felt  it  to  my  heart  of  hearts.  I  was  conscious  of  in- 
justice, and  the  sense  of  it  made  me  bitter.  Our  feelings,  es- 
pecially in  youth,  resemble  that  leaf  which,  in  some  old  traveller, 
is  described  as  expanding  itself  to  warmth,  but  when  chilled, 
not  only  shrinking  and  closing,  but  presenting  to  the  spectator 
thorns,  which  had  lain  concealed  upon  the  opposite  side  of  it 
before. 

With  my  brother  Gerald,  I  had  a  deadly  and  irreconcilable 
feud.  He  was  much  stouter,  taller,  and  stronger  than  myself ; 
and,  far  from  conceding  to  me  that  respect  which  I  imagined 
my  priority  of  birth  entitled  me  to  claim,  he  took  every  oppor- 
tunity to  deride  my  pretensions,  and  to  vindicate  the  cause  of 
Jhe  superior  strength  and  vigor  which  constituted  his  own.     It 


DEVEREUX.  ai 

would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  have  seen  us  cuff  one 
another,  we  did  it  with  such  zeal.  There  is  nothing  in  human 
passion  hke  a  good  brotherly  hatred  !  my  mother  said,  with  the 
most  feeling  earnestness,  that  she  used  to  feel  us  fighting  even 
before  our  birth  :  we  certainly  lost  no  time  directly  after  it. 
Both  my  parents  were  secretly  vexed  that  I  had  come  into  the 
world  an  hour  sooner  than  my  brother;  and  Gerald  himself 
looked  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  juggle — a  kind  of  jockeyship  by 
which  he  had  lost  the  prerogative  of  birthright.  This  very 
early  rankled  in  his  heart,  and  he  was  so  much  a  greater  favor- 
ite than  myself  that,  instead  of  rooting  out  so  unfortunate  a 
feeling  on  his  part,  my  good  parents  made  no  scruple  of  openly 
lamenting  my  seniority.  I  believe  the  real  cause  of  our  being 
taken  from  the  domestic  instructions  of  the  Abbe  (who  was  an 
admirable  teacher)  and  sent  to  school,  was  solely  to  prevent 
my  uncle  deciding  everything  in  my  favor.  Montreuil,  how- 
ever, accompanied  us  to  our  academy,  and  remained  with  us 
during  the  three  years  in  which  we  were  perfecting  .ourselves  in 
the  blessings  of  education. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year,  a  prize  was  instituted  for  the 
best  proficient  at  a  very  severe  examination  ;  two  months  be- 
fore it  took  place  we  went  home  for  a  few  days.  After  dinner 
my  uncle  asked  me  to  walk  with  him  in  the  park.  I  did  so : 
we  strolled  along  the  margin  of  a  rivulet,  which  ornamented 
the  grounds.     There  my  uncle,  for  the  first  time,  broke  silence. 

"  Morton,"  said  he,  looking  down  at  his  left  leg,  "  Morton — 
let  me  see — thou  art  now  of  a  reasonable  age — fourteen  at  the 
least." 
I       "  Fifteen,  if  it  please  you,  sir,"  said  I,  elevating  my  stature 
'  as  much  as  I  was  able. 

"  Humph  !  my  boy  ;  and  a  pretty  time  of  life  it  is,  too.  Your 
brother  Gerald  is  taller  than  you  by  two  inches." 

**  But  I  can  beat  him,  for  all  that,  uncle,"  said  I,  coloring,  and 
, clenching  my  fist. 

My  uncle  pulled  down  his  right  ruffle.  "  'Gad  so,  Morton, 
you're  a  brave  fellow,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  were  less  of 
a  hero  and  more  of  a  scholar.  I  wish  you  could  beat  him  in 
Greek,  as  well  as  in  boxing.  I  will  tell  you  what  Old  Rowley 
said,"  and  my  uncle  occupied  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  with 
A  story.  The  story  opened  the  good  old. gentleman's  heart — my 
laughter  opened  it  still  more.  "  Hark  ye,  sirrah  !  "  said  he, 
pausing  abruptly,  and  grasping  my  hand  with  a  vigorous  effort 
of  love  and  muscle,  "  hark  ye,  sirrah — I  love  you — 'Sdeath,  I 
4o.    I  love  you  better  than  both  your  brothers,  and  that  crab 


i±  DEVEREUX. 

of  a  priest  into  the  bargain  ;  but  I  am  grieved  to  the  heart  to 
hear  what  I  do  of  you.  They  tell  me  you  are  the  idlest  boy 
in  the  school — that  you  are  always  beating  your  brother 
Gerald,  and  making  a  scurrilous  jest  of  your  mother  or 
myself." 

"Who  says  so  ?  who  dares  say  so  ?"  said  I,  with  an  empha- 
sis that  would  have  startled  a  less  hearty  man  than  Sir  William 
Devereux.  "  They  lie,  uncle,  by  my  soul  they  do.  Idle  I  am — 
quarrelsome  with  my  brother  I  confess  myself  ;  but  jesting 
at  you  or  my  mother — never — never.  No,  no  ;  you,  too,  who 
have  been  so  kind  to  me — the  only  one  who  ever  was  !  No, 
no ;  do  not  think  I  could  be  such  a  wretch,"  and  as  I  said  this 
the  tears  gushed  from  my  eyes. 

My  good  uncle  was  exceedingly  affected.  "  Look  ye,  child," 
said  he,  "I  do  not  believe  them.  'Sdeath,  not  a  word — I  would 
repeat  to  you  a  good  jest  now  of  Sedley's,  'Gad,  I  would,  but  I 
am  really  too  much  moved  just  at  present.  I  tell  you  what,  my 
boy,  I  tell  you  what  you  shall  do  :  there  is  a  trial  coming  on  at 
school — eh  ? — well,  the  Abbe  tells  me,  Gerald  is  certain  of  being 
first,  and  you  of  being  last.  Now,  Morton,  you  shall  beat  your 
brother,  and  shame  the  Jesuit.  There — my  mind's  spoken— 
dry  your  tears,  my  boy,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  jest  Sedley  made  : 
it  was  in  the  Mulberry  Garden  one  day — "  And  the  knight  told 
his  story. 

I  dried  my  tears — -pressed  my  uncle's  hand — escaped  from 
him  as  soon  as  I  was  able — hastened  to  my  room,  and  surren- 
dered myself  to  reflection. 

When  my  uncle  so  good-naturedly  proposed  that  I  should 
conquer  Gerald  at  the  examination,  nothing  appeared  to  him 
more  easy  •  he  was  pleased  to  think  I  had  more  talent  than  my 
brother,  and  talent,  according  to  his  creed,  was  the  only  master- 
key  to  unlock  every  science.  A  problem  in  Euclid,  or  a  phrase 
in  Pindar,  a  secret  in  astronomy,  or  a  knotty  passage  in  the 
fathers,  were  all  riddles,  with  the  solution  of  which  application 
had  nothing  to  do.  One's  mother-wit  was  a  precious  sort  of 
necromancy,  which  could  pierce  every  mystery  at  first  sight ; 
and  all  the  gifts  of  knowledge,  in  his  opinion,  like  reading  and 
writing  in  that  of  the  sage  Dogberry,  "  came  by  nature." 
Alas  !  I  was  not  under  the  same  pleasurable  delusion  ;  I 
rather  exaggerated  than  diminished  the  difficulty  of  my  task, 
and  thought,  at  the  first  glance,  that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
would  enable  me  to  excel  my  brother.  Gerald,  a  boy  of  natu- 
ral talent,  and  as  I  said  before,  of  great  assiduity  in  the  ortho- 
clax  studies — especially  favored  too  by  the  instruction  of  Mo»» 


DEVEREUX.  '  23 

treuil — had  long  been  esteemed  the  first  scholar  of  our  littl« 
world  ;  and  though  I  knew  that  with  some  branches  of  learn- 
ing I  was  more  conversant  than  himself,  yet,  as  my  emulation 
had  been  hitherto  solely  directed  to  bodily  contention,  I  had 
never  thought  of  contesting  with  him  a  reputation  for  which  I 
cared  little,  and  on  a  point  in  which  1  had  been  early  taught 
that  I  could  never  hope  to  enter  into  any  advantageous  com- 
parison with  the  "  genius  "  of  the  Devereuxs. 

A  new  spirit  now  passed  into  me — I  examined  myself  with  a 
jealous  and  impartial  scrutiny — I  weighed  my  acquisitions 
against  tliose  of  my  brother — I  called  forth,  from  their  secret 
recesses,  the  unexercised  and  almost  unknown  stores  I  had  from 
time  to  time  laid  up  in  my  mental  armory  to  moulder  and  to 
rust.  I  surveyed  them  with  a  feeling  that  they  might  yet  be 
polished  into  use  :  and,  excited  alike  by  the  stimulus  of  affec- 
tion on  one  side,  and  hatred  on  the  other,  my  mind  worked  it- 
self from  despondency  into  doubt,  and  from  doubt  into  the 
sanguineness  of  hope.  I  told  none  of  my  design, — I  exacted 
from  my  uncle  a  promise  not  to  betray  it — I  shut  myself  in  my 
room — I  gave  out  that  I  was  ill — I  saw  no  one,  not  even  the 
Abbe — I  rejected  his  instructions,  for  I  looked  upon  him  as  an 
enemy ;  and,  for  the  two  months  before  my  trial,  I  spent  night 
and  day  in  an  unrelaxing  application,  of  which,  till  then,  I  had 
not  imagined  myself  capable. 

Though  inattentive  to  the  school  exercises,  I  had  never  been 
wholly  idle.  I  was  a  lover  of  abstruser  researches  than  the 
hackneyed  subjects  of  the  school,  and  we  had  really  received 
such  extensive  and  judicious  instructions  from  the  Abbe  during 
our  early  years  that  it  would  have  been  scarcely  possible  for 
any  of  us  to  have  fallen  into  a  thorough  distaste  for  intellectual 
pursuits.  In  the  examination,  I  foresaw  that  much  which  I  had 
previously  acquired  might  be  profitably  displayed — much  secret 
and  recondite  knowledge  of  the  customs  and  manners  of  the 
ancients,  as  well  as  their  literature,  which  curiosity  had  led  me 
to  obtain,  and  which  I  knew  had  never  entered  into  the  heads 
of  those  who,  contented  with  their  reputation  in  the  customary 
academical  routine,  had  rarely  dreamed  of  wandering  into  less 
beaten  paths  of  learning.  Fortunately  too  for  me,  Gerald  was 
so  certain  of  success  that  latterly  he  omitted  all  precaution  to 
obtain  it ;  and  as  none  of  our  schoolfellows  had  the  vanity  to 
think  of  contesting  with  him,  even  the  Abb^  seemed  to  imagine 
him  justified  in  his  supineness. 

The  day  arrived.  Sir  William,  my  mother,  the  whole  aris- 
tocracy of  the  neighborhood,  were  present  at  the  trial.     The 


24  DEVEREUX. 

Abbe  came  to  my  room  a  few  hours  before  it  commenced ;  he 
found  the  door  locked. 

"  Ungracious  boy,"  said  he,  "admit  me — I  come  at  the  earn- 
est request  of  your  brother,  Aubrey,  to  give  you  some  hints  pre- 
paratory to  the  examination." 

"  He  has  indeed  come  at  my  wish,"  said  the  soft  and  silver 
voice  of  Aubrey,  in  a  supplicating  tone  :  "do  admit  him,  dear 
Morton,  for  my  sake  !  " 

"  Go,"  said  I,  bitterly,  from  within,  "  go — ye  are  both  my  foes 
and  slanderers — you  come  to  insult  my  disgrace  beforehand  ; 
but  perhaps  you  will  be  disappointed." 

"  You  will  not  open  the  door  ? "  said  the  priest. 

"  I  will  not — begone." 

"  He  will  indeed  disgrace  his  family,"  said  Montreuil,  mov- 
ing away. 

"  He  will  disgrace  himself,"  said  Aubrey,  dejectedly. 

I  laughed  scornfully.  If  ever  the  consciousness  of  strength 
is  pleasant,  it  is  when  we  are  thought  most  weak. 

The  greater  part  of  our  examination  consisted  in  the  answer- 
ing of  certain  questions  in  writing,  given  to  us  in  the  three  days 
immediately  previous  to  the  grand  and  final  one  ;  for  this  last 
day  was  reserved  the  paper  of  composition  (as  it  was  termed) 
in  verse  and  prose,  and  the  personal  examination  in  a  few 
showy,  but  generally  understood,  subjects.  When  Gerald  gave 
in  his  paper,  and  answered  the  verbal  questions,  a  buzz  of  ad- 
miration and  anxiety  went  round  the  room.  His  person  was  so 
handsome,  his  address  so  graceful,  his  voice  so  assured  and 
clear,  that  a  strong  and  universal  sympathy  was  excited  in  his 
favor.  The  head-master  publicly  complimented  him.  He  re- 
gretted only  the  deficiency  of  his  pupil  in  certain  minor  but  im- 
portant matters. 

I  came  next,  for  I  stood  next  to  Gerald  in  our  class.  As  I 
walked  up  the  hall,  I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  gallery  in  which 
my  uncle  and  his  party  sat.  I  saw  that  my  mother  was 
listening  to  the  Abb^,  whose  eye,  severe,  cold,  and  con- 
temptuous, was  bent  upon  me.  But  my  uncle  leant  over 
the  railing  of  the  gallery,  with  his  plumed  hat  in  his  hand, 
which,  when  he  caught  my  look,  he  waved  gently — as  if  in 
token  of  encouragement,  and  with  an  air  so  kind  and  cheering, 
that  I  felt  my  step  grow  prouder  as  I  approached  the  conclave 
of  the  masters. 

"  Morton  Devereux,"  said  the  president  of  the  school  in  a  calm, 
loud,  austere  voice,  that  filled  the  whole  hall,  "we  have  looked 
over  your  papers  on  the  three  previous  days,  and  they  have  given 


DEVEREUX.  25 

US  no  less  surprise  than  pleasure.  Take  heed  and  time  how  you 
answer  us  now." 

At  this  speech  a  loud  murmur  was  heard  in  my  uncle's  party, 
which  gradually  spread  round  the  hall.  I  again  looked  up — my 
mother's  face  was  averted  :  that  of  the  Abbe  was  impenetrable, 
but  I  saw  my  uncle  wiping  his  eyes,  and  felt  a  strange  emotion 
creeping  into  my  own.  I  turned  hastily  away,  and  presented  my 
paper — the  head-master  received  it,  and,  putting  it  aside,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  verbal  examination. 

Conscious  of  the  parts  in  which  Gerald  was  likely  to  fail,  I  had 
paid  especial  attention  to  the  minutiae  of  scholarship,  and  my 
forethought  stood  me  in  good  stead  at  the  present  moment.  My 
trial  ceased — my  last  paper  was  read.  I  bowed,  and  retired  to 
the  other  end  of  the  hall.  I  was  not  so  popular  as  Gerald — a 
crowd  was  assembled  round  him,  but  I  stood  alone.  As  I  leant 
against  a  column,  with  folded  arms,  and  a  countenance  which  I 
felt  betrayed  little  of  my  internal  emotions,  my  eye  caught  Ger- 
ald's. He  was  very  pale,  and  I  could  see  that  his  hand  trem- 
bled. Despite  of  our  enmity,  I  felt  for  him.  The  worst  pas- 
sions are  softened  by  triumph,  and  I  foresaw  that  mine  was  at 
hand. 

The  whole  examination  was  over.  Every  boy  had  passed  it. 
The  masters  retired  for  a  moment — they  reappeared  and  re- 
seated themselves.  The  first  sound  I  heard  was  that  of  my  own 
name.  I  was  the  victor  of  the  day — I  was  more — I  was  one 
hundred  marks  before  my  brother.  My  head  swam  round — my 
breath  forsook  me.  Since  then  I  have  been  placed  in  many  trials 
of  life,  and  had  many  triumphs  ;  but  never  was  I  so  overcome  as 
at  that  moment.  I  left  the  hall — I  scarcely  listened  to  the  ap- 
plauses with  which  it  rang.  I  hurried  to  my  own  chamber,  and 
threw  myself  on  the  bed  in  a  delirium  of  intoxicated  feeling, 
which  had  in  it  more  of  rapture  than  anything  but  the  gratifica- 
tion of  first  love  or  first  vanity  can  bestow. 

Ah  !  it  would  be  worth  stimulating  our  passions  if  it  were  only 
for  the  pleasure  of  remembering  their  effect ;  and  all  violent  ex- 
citement should  be  indulged  less  for  the  present  joy  than  for 
future  retrospection. 

My  uncle's  step  was  the  first  thing  which  intruded  on  my  soli- 
tude, 

"Od's  fish,  my  boy! "  said  he,  crying  like  a  child,  "this  is  fine 
work — 'Gad,  so  it  is.  I  almost  wish  I  were  a  boy  myself  to  have 
a  match  with  you — faith  I  do — see  what  it  is  to  learn  a  little  of 
life.  If  you  had  never  read  my  play,  do  you  think  you  would 
have  done  half  so  well  ? — no,  my  boy,  I  sharpened  your  wits  for 


i6  DEVEREUX. 

you.  Honest  George  Etherege  and  I — we  were  the  making  of 
you  ;  and  when  you  come  to  be  a  great  man,  and  are  asked  what 
made  you  so,  you  shall  say — *  My  uncle's  play ' — 'Gad,  you  shall. 
Faith,  boy — never  smile  ! — Od's  fish — I'll  tell  you  a  story  as  a 
propos  to  the  present  occasion  as  if  it  had  been  made  on  pur- 
pose. Rochester,  and  I,  and  Sedley,  were  walking  one  day, — 
and  enlre  nous — awaiting  certain  appointments — hem  ! — for  my 
part  I  was  a  little  melancholy  or  so,  thinking  of  my  catastrophe — 
that  is,  of  my  play's  catastrophe  ;  and  so,  said  Sedley,  winking 
at  Rochester,  'Our  friend  is  sorrowful.'  'Truly,'  said  I,  seeing 
they  were  about  to  banter  me — for  you  know  they  were  arch 
fellows — 'truly,  little  Sid'  (we  called  Sedley  Sid),  'you  are 
greatly  mistaken,' — you  see,  Morton,  I  was  thus  sharp  upon 
him,  because,  when  you  go  to  Court,  you  will  discover  that  it 
does  not  do  to  take  without  giving.  And  then  Rochester  said, 
looking  roguishly  towards  me,  the  wittiest  thing  against 
Sedley  that  I  ever  heard — it  was  the  most  celebrated  bon  mot  at 
Court  for  three  weeks — he  said — No,  boy,  'od's  fish,  it  was  so 
stinging  I  can't  tell  it  thee  ;  faith,  I  can't.  Poor  Sid  ;  he  was  a 
good  fellow,  though  malicious — and  he's  dead  now. — I'm  sorry 
I  said  a  word  about  it.  Nay,  never  look  so  disappointed,  boy. 
You  have  all  the  cream  of  the  story  as  it  is.  And  now  put  on 
your  hat,  and  come  with  me.  I've  got  leave  for  you  to  take  a 
walk  with  your  old  uncle." 

That  night,  as  I  was  undressing,  I  heard  a  gentle  rap  at  the 
door,  and  Aubrey  entered.  He  approached  me  timidly,  and 
then,  throwing  his  arras  round  my  neck,  kissed  me  in  silence.  I 
had  not  for  years  experienced  such  tenderness  from  him  ;  and  I 
sat  now  mute  and  surprised.  At  last  I  said,  with  the  sneer  which 
I  must  confess  I  usually  assumed  towards  those  persons  whom 
I  imagined  I  had  a  right  to  think  ill  of : 

"Pardon  me,  my  gentle  brother,  there  is  something  porten- 
tous in  this  sudden  change.  Look  well  round  the  room,  and 
tell  me  at  your  earliest  leisure  what  treasure  it  is  that  you  are 
desirous  should  pass  from  my  possession  into  your  own." 

*'  Your  love,  Morton,"  said  Aubrey,  drawing  back,  but  appar- 
ently in  pride,  not  anger;  "your  love — I  ask  nothing  more." 

"Of  a  surety,  kind  Aubrey,"  said  I,  "the  favor  seems  some- 
what slight  to  have  caused  your  modesty  such  delay  in  request- 
ing it.  I  think  you  have  been  some  years  nerving  your  mind  to 
the  exertion." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Morton,"  said  Aubrey,  suppressing  his  emo- 
tion ;  "you  have  always  been  my  favorite  brother.  From  our 
first  childhood  my  heart  yearned  to  you.     Do  you  remember  the 


BEVEREUX.  ij 

time  when  an  enraged  bull  pursued  me,  and  you,  then  only  ten 
years  old,  placed  yourself  before  it  and  defended  me  at  the  risk 
of  your  own  life  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  forget  that — child 
as  I  was  ? — never,  Morton,  never  !  " 

Before  I  could  answer,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
Abbe  entered.  "Children,"  said  he,  and  the  single  light  of  the 
room  shone  full  upon  his  unmoved,  rigid,  commanding  features — 
"children,  be  as  Heaven  intended  you — friends  and  brothers. 
Morton,  I  have  wronged  you,  I  own  it — here  is  my  hand  ; 
Aubrey,  let  all  but  early  love,  and  the  present  promise  of  excel- 
lence which  your  brother  displays,  be  forgotten." 

With  these  words,  the  priest  joined  our  hands.  I  looked  on 
my  brother,  and  ray  heart  melted.  I  flung  myself  into  his  arms 
and  wept. 

That  day  was  a  new  era  in  my  boyish  life.  I  grew  hence- 
forth both  better  and  worse.  Application  and  I,  having  once 
shaken  hands,  became  very  good  acquaintance.  I  had  hitherto 
valued  myself  upon  supplying  the  frailties  of  a  delicate  frame 
by  an  uncommon  agiUty  in  all  bodily  exercises.  I  now  strove 
rather  to  improve  the  deficiencies  of  my  mind,  and  became 
orderly,  industrious,  and  devoted  to  study.  So  far  so  well — 
but  as  I  grew  wiser,  I  grew  also  more  wary.  Candor  no  longer 
seemed  to  me  the  finest  of  virtues.  I  thought  before  I  spoke  ; 
and  second  thought  sometimes  quite  changed  the  nature  of  the 
intended  speech  ;  in  short,  gentlemen  of  the  next  century,  to 
tell  you  the  exact  truth,  the  little  Count  Devereux  became 
somewhat  of  a  hypocrite  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  Contest  of  Art,  and  a  League  of  Friendship — Two  Characters  in  mutual 
Ignorance  of  each  other,  and  the  reader  no  wiser  than  either  of  them. 

The  Abbe  was  now  particularly  courteous  to  me.  He  made 
Gerald  and  myself  breakfast  with  him,  and  told  us  nothing  was 
so  amiable  as  friendship  among  brothers.  We  agreed  to  the 
sentiment,  and,  like  all  philosophers,  did  not  agree  a  bit  the 
better  for  acknowledging  the  same  first  principles.  Perhaps, 
nothwithstanding  his  fine  speeches,  the  Abbe  was  the  real 
cause  of  our  continued  want  of  cordiality.  However,  we  did 
not  fight  any  more — we  avoided  each  other,  and  at  last  becam6 
as  civil  and  as  distant  as  those  mathematical  lines,  which 
appear  to  be  taking  all  possible  pains  to  approach  one  another. 


28  DEVEREUX. 

and  never  get  a  jot  the  nearer  for  it.  Oh,  your  civility  is  the 
prettiest  invention  possible  for  dislike  !  Aubrey  and  I  were 
inseparable,  and  we  both  gained  by  the  intercourse.  I  grew 
more  gentle,  and  he  more  masculine ;  and,  for  my  part,  the 
kindness  of  his  temper  so  softened  the  satire  of  mine  that  I 
learned  at  last  to  smile  full  as  often  as  to  sneer. 

The  Abbe  had  obtained  a  wonderful  hold  over  Aubrey ;  he 
had  made  the  poor  boy  think  so  much  of  the  next  world,  that 
he  had  lost  all  relish  for  this.  He  lived  in  a  perpetual  fear  of 
offence — he  was  like  a  chemist  of  conscience,  and  weighed 
minutiae  by  scruples.  To  play,  to  ride,  to  run,  to  laugh  at  a 
jest,  or  to  banquet  on  a  melon,  were  all  sins  to  be  atoned  for ; 
and  I  have  found  (as  a  penance  for  eating  twenty-three  cherries 
instead  of  eighteen),  the  penitent  of  fourteen  standing,  bare- 
footed, in  the  coldest  nights  of  winter,  upon  the  hearth-stones, 
almost  naked,  and  shivering  like  a  leaf,  beneath  the  mingled 
effect  of  frost  and  devotion.  At  first  I  attempted  to  wrestle 
with  this  exceeding  holiness,  but  finding  my  admonitions  re- 
ceived with  great  distaste  and  some  horror,  I  suffered  my 
brother  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way.  I  only  looked  with  a 
very  evil  and  jealous  eye  upon  the  good  Abb^,  and  examined, 
while  I  encouraged  them,  the  motives  of  his  advances  to 
myself.  What  doubled  my  suspicions  of  the  purity  of  the 
priest  was  my  perceiving  that  he  appeared  to  hold  out  different 
inducements  for  trusting  him,  to  each  of  us,  according  to  his 
notions  of  our  respective  characters.  My  brother  Gerald  he 
alternately  awed  and  persuaded,  by  the  sole  effect  of  superior 
intellect.  With  Aubrey  he  used  the  mechanism  of  superstition. 
To  me,  he,  on  the  one  hand,  never  spoke  of  religion,  nor,  on 
the  other,  ever  used  threats  or  persuasion,  to  induce  me  to 
follow  any  plan  suggested  to  my  adoption  ;  everything  seemed 
to  be  left  to  my  reason  and  my  ambition.  He  would  converse 
with  me  for  hours  upon  the  world  and  its  affairs,  speak  of 
courts  and  kings,  in  an  easy  and  unpedantic  strain  ;  point  but 
the  advantage  of  intellect  in  acquiring  power  and  controlling 
one's  species ;  and,  whenever  I  was  disposed  to  be  sarcastic 
upon  the  human  nature  I  had  read  of,  he  supported  my 
sarcasm  by  illustrations  of  the  human  nature  he  had  seen.  We 
were  both,  I  think  (for  myself  I  can  answer),  endeavoring  to 
pierce  the  real  nature  of  the  other  ;  and  perhaps  the  talent  of 
diplomacy  for  which,  years  afterwards,  I  obtained  some  ap- 
plause, was  first  learned  in  my  skirmishing  warfare  with  the 
Abbe  Montreuil. 

At  last,  the  evening  before  we  quitted  school  for  good  arrived. 


DEVEUEUX.  29 

Aubrey  had  just  left  me  for  solitary  prayers,  and  I  was  sitting 
alone  by  my  fire,  when  Montreuil  entered  gently.  He  sat 
himself  down  by  me,  and,  after  giving  me  the  salutation 
of  the  evening,  sunk  into  a  silence  which  I  was  the  first  to 
break. 

"  Pray,  Abbe,"  said  I,  "  have  one's  years  anything  to  do  with 
one's  age?  " 

The  priest  was  accustomed  to  the  peculiar  tone  of  my 
sagacious  remarks,  and  answered  drily  : 

"  Mankind  in  general  imagine  that  they  have." 

**  Faith  then,"  said  I,  "  mankind  know  very  little  about  the 
matter.  To-day  I  am  at  school  and  a  boy,  to-morrow  I  leave 
school — if  I  hasten  to  town  I  am  presented  at  court — and  lo  ! 
I  am  a  man  ;  and  this  change  within  half  a  dozen  changes  of 
the  sun  ! — therefore,  most  reverend  father,  I  humbly  opine 
that  age  is  measured  by  events — not  years." 

"  And  are  you  not  happy  at  the  idea  of  passing  the  age  of 
thraldom,  and  seeing  arrayed  before  you  the  numberless  and 
dazzling  pomps  and  pleasures  of  the  great  world?"  said 
Montreuil  abruptly,  fixing  his  dark  and  keen  eye  upon  me. 

"  I  have  not  yet  fully  made  up  my  mind  whether  to  be 
happy  or  not,"  said  I  carelessly. 

"It  is  a  strange  answer,"  said  the  priest;  "but  "  (after  a 
pause)  "  you  are  a  strange  youth — a  character  that  resembles 
a  riddle  is  at  your  age  uncommon,  and,  pardon  me,  unamiable. 
Age,  naturally  repulsive,  requires  a  mask  ;  and  in  every  wrinkle 
you  may  behold  the  ambush  of  a  scheme ;  but  the  heart  of 
youth  should  be  open  as  its  countenance  !  However,  I  will 
not  weary  you  with  homilies — let  us  change  the  topic.  Tell 
me,  Morton,  do  you  repent  having  turned  your  attention  of 
late  to  those  graver  and  more  systematic  studies  which  can 
alone  hereafter  obtain  you  distinction?" 

"  No,  father,"  said  I,  with  a  courtly  bow,  "  for  the  change 
has  gained  me  your  good  opinion." 

A  smile  of  peculiar  and  undefinable  expression  crossed  the 
thin  lips  of  the  priest  ;  he  rose,  walked  to  the  door,  and  saw 
tliat  it  was  carefully  closed.  I  expected  some  important  com- 
munication, but  in  vain  ;  pacing  the  small  room  to  and  fro,  as 
if  in  a  musing  mood,  the  Abbe  remained  silent,  till,  pausing 
opposite  some  fencing  foils,  which,  among  various  matters 
(books,  papers,  quoits,  etc.),  were  thrown  idly  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  he  said  : 

"They  tell  me  that  you  are  the  best  fencer  in  the  school — is 
it  so  ?  " 


36  DEVEfeEUX. 

"  I  hope  not,  for  fencing  is  an  accomplishment  in  which  Ger- 
ald is  very  nearly  my  equal,"  I  replied. 

'*  You  run,  ride,  leap,  too,  better  than  any  one  else,  according 
to  the  votes  of  your  comrades  ?" 

"It  is  a  noble  reputation,"  said  I,  "in  which  I  believe  I  am 
only  excelled  by  our  huntsman's  eldest  son." 

"  You  are  a  strange  youth,"  repeated  the  priest;  "  no  pursuit 
seems  to  give  you  pleasure,  and  no  success  to  gratify  your  vanity. 
Can  you  not  think  of  any  triumph  which  would  elate  you?" 

I  was  silent. 

"Yes,"  cried  Montreuil,  approaching  me — "yes,"  cried  he,  "I 
read  your  heart,  and  I  respect  it;  these  are  petty  competitions 
and  worthless  honors.  You  require  a  nobler  goal,  and  a  more 
glorious  reward.  He  who  feels  in  his  soul  that  Fate  has  reserved 
for  him  a  great  and  exalted  part  in  this  world's  drama,  may 
reasonably  look  with  indifference  on  these  paltry  rehearsals  of 
common  characters." 

I  raised  my  eye,  and  as  it  met  that  of  the  priest,  I  was  irre- 
sistibly struck  with  the  proud  and  luminous  expression  which 
Montreuil's  look  had  assumed.  Perhaps  something  kindred  to  its 
nature  was  perceptible  in  my  own;  for,  after  surveying  me  with 
an  air  of  more  approbation  than  he  had  ever  honored  me  with 
before,  he  grasped  my  arm  firmly,  and  said:  "  Morton,  you  know 
me  not — for  many  years  I  have  not  known  you — that  time  is 
past.  No  sooner  did  your  talents  develop  themselves  than  I 
was  the  first  to  do  homage  to  their  power — let  us  henceforth  be 
more  to  each  other  than  we  have  been — let  us  not  be  pupil  and 
teacher — let  us  be  friends.  Do  not  think  that  I  invite  you  to 
an  unequal  exchange  of  good  offices — you  may  be  the  heir  to 
wealth,  and  a  distinguished  name — I  may  seem  to  you  but  an 
unknown  and  undignified  priest — bufthe  authority  of  the  Al- 
mighty can  raise  up,  from  the  sheep-fold  and  the  cottar's  shed, 
a  power  which,  as  the  organ  of  His  own,  can  trample  upon 
sceptres,  and  dictate  to  the  supremacy  of  kings.  And  / — /, — " 
the  priest  abruptly  paused,  checked  the  warmth  of  his  manner, 
as  if  he  thought  it  about  to  encroach  on  indiscretion,  and,  sink- 
ing into  a  calmer  tone,  continued:  "Yes,  I,  Morton,  insignificant 
as  I  appear  to  you,  can,  in  every  path  through  this  intricate  laby- 
rinth of  life,  be  more  useful  to  your  desires  than  you  can  ever 
be  to  mine.  I  offer  to  you  in  my  friendship,  a  fervor  of  zeal 
and  energy  of  power,  which  in  none  of  your  equals,  in  age  ancj 
station,  you  can  hope  to  find.     Do  you  accept  my  offer?" 

"Can  you  doubt,"  said  I,  with  eagerness,  "that  I  would  avail 
myself  of  the  services  of  any  man,  however  displeasing  to  me. 


DEVEREUX.  31 

^nd  worthless  in  himself  ?  How,  then,  can  I  avoid  embracing 
the  friendship  of  one  so  extraordinary  in  knowledge  and  intellect 
as  yourself?     I  do  embrace  it,  and  with  rapture." 

The  priest  pressed  my  hand.  "  But,"  continued  he,  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  mine,  "all  alliances  have  their  conditions — I  require 
implicit  confidence;  and,  for  some  years,  till  time  gives  you  ex- 
perience, regard  for  your  interests  induces  me  also  to  require 
obedience.  Name  any  wish  you  may  form  for  worldly  advance- 
ment, opulence,  honor,  the  smile  of  kings,  the  gifts  of  states, 
and — I — I  will  pledge  myself  to  carry  that  wish  into  effect. 
Never  had  Eastern  prince  so  faithful  a  servant  among  the  Dives 
and  Genii  as  Morton  Devereux  shall  find  in  me  ;  but  question 
me  not  of  the  sources  of  my  power— be  satisfied  when  their 
channel  wafts  you  the  success  you  covet.  And,  more,  when  I 
in  my  turn  (and  this  shall  be  but  rarely)  request  a  favor  of 
you;  ask  me  not  for  what  end,  nor  hesitate  to  adopt  the  means 
I  shall  propose.  You  seem  startled  ;  are  you  content  at  this 
understanding  between  us,  or  will  you  retract  the  bond?" 

"My  father,"  said  I,  "there  is  enough  to  startle  me  in  your 
proposal;  it  greatly  resembles  that  made  by  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountains  to  his  vassals,  and  it  would  not  exactly  suit  my  in- 
clinations to  be  called  upon  some  morning  to  act  the  part  of  a 
private  executioner." 

The  priest  smiled.  "My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "those  days 
have  passed:  neither  religion  nor  friendship  requires  of  her  vo- 
taries sacrifices  of  blood.  Biit  make  yourself  easy  ;  whenever 
I  ask  of  you  what  offends  your  conscience,  even  in  a  punctilio, 
refuse  my  request.     With  this  exception  what  say  you  ?  " 

"That  I  think  I  will  agree  to  the  bond  ;  but,  father,  I  am  an 
irresolute  person — I  must  have  time  to  consider." 

"  Be  it  so.  To-morrow,  having  surrendered  my  charge  to 
your  uncle,  I  depart  for  France." 

"  For  France  !"  said  I;  "and  how? — Surely  the  war  will  pre- 
vent your  passage." 

The  priest  smiled.  Nothing  ever  displeased  me  more  than 
that  priest's  smile.  "The  ecclesiastics,"  said  he,  "are  the  am- 
bassadors of  Heaven,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  wars  of 
earth.  I  shall  find  no  difficulty  in  crossing  the  Channel.  I  shall 
not  return  for  several  months,  perhaps  not  till  the  expiration  of 
a  year  :  I  leave  you,  till  then,  to  decide  upon  the  terms  I  have 
proposed  to  you.  Meanwhile,  gratify  my  vanity,  by  employing 
my  power  ;  name  some  commission  in  France  which  you  wish 
me  to  execute." 
^     "  I  can  think  of  none — yet,  stay,^ — "  and  t  felt  some  curiosity 


32  DEVEREUX. 

to  try  the  power  of  which  he  boasted — "  I  have  read  that  kings 
are  blest  with  a  most  accommodating  memory,  and  perfectly  for- 
get their  favorites,  when  they  can  be  no  longer  useful.  You  will 
see,  perhaps,  if  my  father's  name  has  become  a  gothic  and  un- 
known sound  at  the  court  of  the  Great  King.  I  confess  myself 
curious  to  learn  this,  though  I  can  have  no  personal  interest 
in  it." 

"  Enough,  the  commission  shall  be  done.  And  now,  my  child, 
Heaven  bless  you!  and  send  you  many  such  friends  as  the  hum- 
ble priest,  who,  whatever  be  his  failings,  has  at  least  the  merit 
of  wishing  to  serve  those  whom  he  loves." 

So  saying,  the  priest  closed  the  door.  Sinking  into  a  revery, 
as  his  footsteps  died  upon  my  ear,  I  muttered  to  myself:  "  Well, 
well,  my  sage  ecclesiastic,  the  game  is  not  over  yet;  let  us  see  if, 
at  sixteen,  we  cannot  shuffle  cards,  and  play  tricks  with  the 
gamester  of  thirty.  Yet,  he  may  be  in  earnest,  and  faith  I  be- 
lieve he  is  ;  but  I  must  look  well  before  I  leap,  or  consign  my 
actions  into  such  spiritual  keeping.  However,  if  the  worst  come 
to  the  worst,  if  I  do  make  this  compact,  and  am  deceived — if, 
above  all,  I  am  ever  seduced,  or  led  blindfold  into  one  of  those 
snares  which  priestcraft  sometimes  lays  to  the  cost  of  honor — 
why  I  shall  have  a  sword,  which  I  shall  never  be  at  a  loss  to  use, 
and  it  can  find  its  way  through  a  priest's  gown  as  well  as  a  sol- 
dier's corslet." 

Confess,  that  a  youth,  who  could  think  so  promptly  of  his 
sword,  was  well-fitted  to  wear  one ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

Rural  Hospitality— an  extraordinary'Guest.     A  fine  Gentleman  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  Fool. 

We  were  all  three  (my  brothers  and  myself)  precocious 
geniuses.  Our  early  instructions,  under  a  man  like  the  Abb^, 
at  once  learned  and  worldly,  and  the  Society  into  which  we  had 
been  initiated  from  our  childhood,  made  us  premature  adepts 
in  the  manners  of  the  world  ;  and  I,  in  especial,  flattered  my- 
self that  a  quick  habit  of  observation  rendered  me  no  despicable 
profiler  by  my  experience.  Our  academy,  too,  had  been  more 
like  a  college  than  a  school ;  and  we  had  enjoyed  a  license  that 
seemed,  to  the  superficial,  more  likely  to  benefit  our  manners 
than  to  strengthen  our  morals.     I  do  not  think,  however,  that 


DEVEREUX.  33 

the  latter  suffered  by  our  freedom  from  restraint.  On  the  con- 
trary, we  the  earlier  learnt  that  vice,  but  for  the  piquancy  of  its 
unlawfulness,  would  never  be  so  captivating  a  goddess ;  and 
our  errors  and  crimes,  in  after-life,  had  certainly  not  their  origin 
in  our  wanderings  out  of  academical  bounds. 

It  is  right  that  I  should  mention  our  prematurity  of  intellect, 
because,  otherwise,  much  of  my  language  and  reflections,  as 
detailed  in  the  first  book  of  this  history,  might  seem  ill  suited 
to  the  tender  age  at  which  they  occurred.  However,  they  ap- 
proach, as  near  as  possible,  to  my  state  of  mind  at  that  period  ; 
and  I  have,  indeed,  often  mortified  my  vanity,  in  later  life,  by 
thinking  how  little  the  march  of  time  has  ripened  my  abilities, 
and  how  petty  would  have  been  the  intellectual  acquisitions  of 
manhood — if  they  had  not  brought  me  something  like  content ! 

My  uncle  had  always,  during  his  retirement,  seen  as  many 
people  as  he  could  assemble  out  of  the  "mob  of  Gentlemen 
who  live  at  ease."  But,  on  our  quitting  school,  and  becoming 
men,  be  resolved  to  set  no  bounds  to  his  hospitality.  His  doors 
were  literally  thrown  open  ;  and  as  he  was  by  far  the  greatest 
person  in  the  district — to  say  nothing  of  his  wines,  and  his 
French  cook — many  of  the  good  people  of  London  did  not 
think  it  too  great  an  honor  to  confer  upon  the  wealthy  repre- 
sentative of  the  Devereuxs  the  distinction  of  their  company  and 
compliments.  Heavens  !  what  notable  samples  of  court  breed- 
ing and  furbelows  did  the  crane-neck  coaches,  which  made 
our  own  family  vehicle  look  like  a  gilt  tortoise,  pour  forth  by 
couples  and  leashes  into  the  great  hall — while  my  gallant  uncle, 
in  a  new  perriwig,  and  a  pair  of  silver-clocked  stockings  ( a 
present  from  a  ci-devant  fine  lady),  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the 
picture  gallery,  to  receive  his  visitors,  with  all  the  graces  of  the 
last  age. 

My  mother,  who  had  preserved  her  beauty  wonderfully,  sat 
in  a  chair  of  green  velvet,  and  astonished  the  courtiers  by  the 
fashion  of  a  dress  just  imported.  The  worthy  Countess  (she 
had  dropped  in  England  the  loftier  distinction  of  Madame  la 
Mar^chale)  was,  however,  quite  innocent  of  any  intentional 
affectation  of  the  mode :  for  the  new  stomacher,  so  admired  in 
London,  had  been  the  last  alteration  in  female  garniture  at 
Paris,  a  month  before  my  father  died.  Is  not  this  "  Fashion  " 
a  noble  divinity  to  possess  such  zealous  adherents  ! — a  pitiful, 
lackey-like  creature,  v/hich  struts  through  one  country  with 
the  cast-off  finery  of  another  ! 

As  for  Aubrey  and  Gerald,  they  produced  quite  an  effect — 
and  I  should  most  certainly  have  been  thrown  irrevocably  into 


34  DEVEREUX. 

the  background,  had  I  not  been  born  to  the  good  fortune  of 
an  eldest  son.  This  was  far  more  than  sufficient  to  atone  for 
the  comparative  plainness  of  my  person  ;  and  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that  I  was  also  Sir  William's  favorite,  it  is  quite  astonish- 
ing what  a  beauty  I  became  !  Aubrey  was  declared  too  effemi- 
nate ;  Gerald  too  tall.  And  the  Duchess  of  Lackland  one 
day,  when  she  had  placed  a  lean,  sallow  ghost  of  a  daughter 
on  either  side  of  me,  whispered  my  uncle  in  a  voice,  like  the 
aside  of  a  player,  intended  for  none  but  the  whole  audience, 
that  the  young  Count  had  the  most  imposing  air  and  the  finest 
eyes  she  had  ever  seen.  All  this  inspired  me  with  courage,  as 
well  as  contempt ;  and  not  liking  to  be  beholden  solely  to  my 
priority  of  birth  for  my  priority  of  distinction,  I  resolved  to 
become  as  agreeable  as  possible.  If  I  had  not  in  the  vanity  of 
my  heart  resolved  also  to  be  "myself  alone,"  Fate  would  have 
furnished  me  at  the  happiest  age  for  successful  imitation  with 
an  admirable  model. 

Time  rolled  on — two  years  were  flown  since  I  had  left  school, 
and  Montreuil  was  not  yet  returned.  I  had  passed  the  age  of 
eighteen,  when  the  whole  house,  which,  as  it  was  summer, 
when  none  but  cats  and  physicians  were  supposed  gifted  by 
Providence  with  the  power  to  exist  in  town,  was  uncommonly 
full — the  whole  house,  I  say,  was  thrown  into  a  positive  fever 
of  expectation.  The  visit  of  a  guest,  if  not  of  greater  conse- 
quence, at  least  of  greater  interest,  than  any  who  had  hitherto 
honored  my  uncle,  was  announced.  Even  the  young  Count, 
with  the  most  imposing  air  in  the  world,  and  the  finest  eyes, 
was  forgotten  by  everybody  but  the  Duchess  of  Lackland  and 
her  daughters,  who  had  just  returned  to  Devereux  Court,  to 
observe  how  amazingly  the  Count  had  grown  !  Oh,  what  a 
prodigy  wisdom  would  be,  if  it  were  but  blessed  with  a  memory 
as  keen  and  constant  as  that  of  interest  ! 

Struck  with  the  universal  excitement,  I  went  to  my  uncle  to 
inquire  the  name  of  the  expected  guest.  My  uncle  was  occu- 
pied in  fanning  the  Lady  Hasselton,  a  daughter  of  one  of  King 
Charles's  Beauties.  He  had  only  time  to  answer  me  literally, 
and  without  comment ;  the  guest's  name  was  Mr.  St.  John. 

I  had  never  conned  the  "Flying  Post,"  and  I  knew  nothing 
about  politics.  "Who  is  Mr.  St.  John?"  said  I;  my  uncle 
had  renewed  the  office  of  a  zephyr.  The  daughter  of  the 
Beauty  heard  and  answered,  "The  most  charming  person  in 
England."  I  bowed  and  turned  away.  "  How  vastly  explana- 
tory !  "  said  I.  I  met  a  furious  politician.  "  Who  is  Mr.  St. 
Jfahn  ?  "  I  asked. 


DEVEREUX.  "35 

•*  The  cleverest  man  in  England,"  answered  the  politician, 
hurrying  off  with  a  pamphlet  in  his  hand. 

"Nothing  can  be  more  satisfactory,"  thought  I.  Stopping  a 
coxcomb  of  the  first  water,  "  Who  is  Mr,  St.  John  ?"  I  asked. 

"  The  finest  gentleman  in  England,"  answered  the  coxcomb, 
settling  his  cravat. 

"Perfectly  intelligible!"  was  my  reflection  on  this  reply; 
and  I  forthwith  arrested  a  Whig  parson — *'  Who  is  Mr.  St.  John  ? " 
said  I. 

"The  greatest  reprobate  in  England!"  answered  the  Whig 
parson,  and  1  was  too  stunned  to  inquire  more. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  was 
heard  in  the  courtyard,  then  a  slight  bustle  in  the  hall,  and 
the  door  of  the  anteroom  being  thrown  open,  Mr.  St.  John 
entered. 

He  was  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  about  the  middle  height,  and 
of  a  mien  and  air  so  strikingly  noble  that  it  was  some  time 
before  you  recovered  the  general  effect  of  his  person  suffice 
iently  to  examine  its  peculiar  claims  to  admiration.  However, 
he  lost  nothing  by  a  farther  survey  :  he  possessed  not  only  ao 
eminently  handsome,  but  a  very  extraordinary  countenance. 
Through  an  air  of  nonchalance,  and  even  something  of  lassi- 
tude, through  an  ease  of  manners  sometimes  sinking  into  effemi- 
nate softness,  sometimes  bordering  upon  licentious  effrontery, 
his  eye  thoughtful,  yet  wandering,  seemed  to  announce  that  the 
mind  partook  but  little  of  the  whim  of  the  moment,  or  of  those 
levities  of  ordinary  life  over  which  the  grace  of  his  manner  threw 
so  peculiar  a  charm.  His  brow  was,  perhaps,  rather  too  large 
and  prominent  for  the  exactness  of  perfect  symmetry ;  but  it 
had  an  expression  of  great  mental  power  and  determination. 
His  features  were  high,  yet  delicate,  and  his  mouth,  which,  when 
closed,  assumed  a  firm  and  rather  severe  expression,  softened, 
when  speaking,  into  a  smile  of  almost  magical  enchantment. 
Richly  but  not  extravagantly  dressed,  he  appeared  to  cultivate, 
rather  than  disdain,  the  ornaments  of  outward  appearance  ;  and 
whatever  can  fascinate  or  attract  was  so  inherent  in  this  singu- 
lar man  that  all  which  in  others  would  have  been  most  artificial 
was  in  him  most  natural ;  so  that  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  add 
that  to  be  well  dressed  seemed  to  the  elegance  of  his  person  not 
so  much  the  result  of  art  as  of  a  property  innate  and  peculiar  to 
himself. 

Such  was  the  outward  appearance  of  Henry  St.  John  ;  one 
well  suited  to  the  qualities  of  a  mind  at  once  more  vigorous  and 
more  accomplished  than  that  of  any  other  other  person  with 


36  DEVEREUX. 

whom  the  vicissitudes  of  my  life  have  ever  brought  me  into 
contact. 

I  kept  my  eye  on  the  new  guest  throughout  the  whole  day  ;  I 
observed  the  mingled  liveliness  and  softness  which  pervaded  his 
attentions  to  women,  the  intellectual  yet  unpedantic  superiority 
he  possessed  in  his  conversations  with  men  ;  his  respectful  de- 
meanor to  age  ;  his  careless,  yet  not  over-familiar,  ease  with  the 
young ;  and,  what  interested  me  more  than  all,  the  occasional 
cloud  which  passed  over  his  countenance  at  moments  when  he 
seemed  sunk  into  a  revery  that  had  for  its  objects  nothing  in 
common  with  those  around  him. 

Just  before  dinner,  St.  John  was  talking  to  a  little  group, 
among  whom  curiosity  seemed  to  have  drawn  the  Whig  parson 
whom  I  have  before  mentioned.  He  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
shy  and  uneasy  ;  one  of  the  company  took  advantage  of  so  favor>- 
able  a  butt  for  jests,  and  alluded  to  the  bystander  in  a  witticism 
which  drew  laughter  from  all  but  St.  John,  who,  turning  sud- 
denly towards  the  parson,  addressed  an  observation  to  him  in 
the  most  respectful  tone.  Nor  did  he  cease  talking  with  him 
(fatiguing  as  the  conference  must  have  been,  for  never  was  there 
a  duller  ecclesiastic  than  the  gentleman  conversed  with)  until 
we  descended  to  dinner.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  learned  that 
nothing  can  constitute  good  breeding  that  has  not  good  nature 
for  its  foundation  ;  and  then,  too,  as  I  was  leading  Lady  Bar- 
bara Lackland  to  the  great  hall,  by  the  tip  of  her  forefinger,  I 
made  another  observation.  Passing  the  priest,  I  heard  him  say 
to  a  fellow-clerk : 

"Certainly,  he  is  the  greatest  man  in  England";  and  I  men- 
tally remarked,  "  There  is  no  policy  like  politeness :  and  a  good 
manner  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world,  either  to  get  one  a  good 
name  or  to  supply  the  want  of  it." 


CHAPTER  VL 

A  Dialogue,  which  might  be  dull  if  it  were  longer. 

Three  days  after  the  arrival  of  St.  John,  I  escaped  from  the 
crowd  of  impertinents,  seized  a  volume  of  Cowley,  and,  in  a  fit 
of  mingled  poetry  and  melancholy,  strolled  idly  into  the  park. 
I  came  to  the  margin  of  the  stream,  and  to  the  very  spot  on 
which  I  had  stood  with  my  uncle  on  the  evening  when  he  had 
first  excited  my  emulation  to  scholastic  rather  than  manual  con- 
tention with  my  brother. — I  seated  myself  by  the  water-side,  and. 


DEVEREUX.  37 

feeling  indisposed  to  read,  leant  my  cheek  upon  my  hand,  and 
surrendered  my  thoughts  as  prisoners  to  the  reflections  which  I 
could  not  resist. 

I  continued,  I  know  not  how  long,  in  my  meditation,  till  I 
was  roused  by  a  gentle  touch  upon  my  shoulder ;  I  looked  up, 
and  saw  St.  John. 

"  Pardon  me.  Count,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  I  should  not  have 
disturbed  your  reflections  had  not  your  neglect  of  an  old  friend 
emboldened  me  to  address  you  upon  his  behalf." — And  St. 
John  pointed  to  the  volume  of  Cowley  which  he  had  taken  up 
without  my  perceiving  it. 

"Well,"  added  he,  seating  himself  on  the  turf  beside  me,  "in 
my  younger  days,  poetry  and  I  were  better  friends  than  we  are 
now.  And  if  I  had  had  Cowley  as  a  companion,  I  should  not 
have  parted  with  him  as  you  have  done,  even  for  my  own  reflec- 
tions." 

"You  admire  him,  then?"  said  I. 

"Why,  that  is  too  general  a  question.  I  admire  what  is  fine 
in  him,  as  in  every  one  else,  but  I  do  not  love  him  the  better  for 
his  points  and  his  conceits.  He  reminds  me  of  what  Cardinal 
Pallavicine  said  of  Seneca,  that  he  'perfumes  his  conceits  with 
civet  and  ambergris.'  However,  Count,  I  have  opened  upon  a 
beautiful  motto  for  you  : 

Here  let  me,  careless  and  unthoughtful  lying, 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying, 
With  all  their  wanton  boughs  dispute. 
And  the  more  tuneful  birds  to  both  replying  ; 
Nor  be  myself  too  mute. 

What  say  you  to  that  wish  ?  If  you  have  a  germ  of  poetry  in 
you,  such  verse  ought  to  bring  it  into  flower." 

"Ay,"  answered  I,  though  not  exactly  in  accordance  with  the 
truth  ;  "but  I  have  not  the  germ.  I  destroyed  it  four  years  ago. 
Reading  the  dedications  of  poets  cured  me  of  the  love  for  poetry. 
What  a  pity  that  the  Divine  Inspiration  should  have  for  its 
oracles  such  mean  souls  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  how  industrious  the  good  gentlemen  are  in  debas- 
ing themselves.  Their  ingenuity  is  never  half  so  much  shown 
in  a  simile  as  in  a  compliment ;  I  know  nothing  in  nature  more 
melancholy  than  the  discovery  of  any  meanness  in  a  great  man. 
There  is  so  little  to  redeem  the  dry  mass  of  follies  and  errors 
from  which  the  materials  of  this  life  are  composed,  that  anything 
to  love  or  to  reverence  becomes,  as  it  were,  the  Sabbath  for  the 
mind.  It  is  bitter  to  feel,  as  we  grow  older,  how  the  respite  is 
abridged,  and  how  the  few  objects  left  to  our  admiration  are 


^  DEVEREUX. 

abased.  What  a  foe  not  only  to  life,  but  to  all  that  dignifies  and 
ennobles  it,  is  Time.  Our  affections  and  our  pleasures  resem- 
ble those  fabulous  trees  described  by  St.  Oderic — the  fruits 
which  they  bring  forth  are  no  sooner  ripened  into  maturity  than 
they  are  transformed  into  birds,  and  fly  away.  But  these  reflec- 
tions cannot  yet  be  familiar  to  you.  Let  us  return  to  Cowley. 
Do  you  feel  any  sympathy  with  his  prose  writings  ?  For  some 
minds  they  have  a  great  attraction." 

"  They  have  for  mine,"  answered  I ;  *'  but  then  I  am  naturally 
a  dreamer  ;  and  a  contemplative  egotist  is  always  to  me  a  mirror 
in  which  I  behold  myself." 

1,  "The  world,"  answered  St.  John,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
"-will  soon  dissolve,  or  for  ever  confirm,  your  humor  for  dreaming; 
in  either  case,  Cowley  will  not  be  less  a  favorite.  But  you  must, 
like  me,  have  long  toiled  in  the  heat  and  travail  of  business,  or  of 
pleasure,  which  is  more  wearisome  still,  in  order  fully  to  sym- 
pathize with  those  beautiful  panegyrics  upon  solitude  which 
make,  perhaps,  the  finest  passages  in  Cowley.  I  have  often 
thought  that  he  whom  God  hath  gifted  with  a  love  of  retirement 
possesses,  as  it  were,  an  extra  sense.  And  among  what  our  poet 
so  eloquently  calls  '  the  vast  and  noble  scenes  of  nature,'  we  find 
the  balm  for  the  wounds  we  have  sustained  among  the  *  pitiful 
shifts  of  policy';  for  the  attachment  to  solitude  is  the  surest 
preservative  from  the  ills  of  life  :  and  I  know  not  if  the  Romans 
ever  instilled,  under  allegory,  a  sublimer  truth  than  when  they 
inculcated  the  belief  that  those  inspired  by  Feronia,  the  goddess 
of  woods  and  forests,  could  walk  barefoot  and  uninjured  over 
burning  coals." 

At  this  part  of  our  conference,  the  bell  swinging  hoarsely 
through  the  long  avenues,  and  over  the  silent  water,  summoned 
us  to  the  grand  occupation  of  civilized  life  ;  we  rose  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  house. 

"Does  not,"  said  I,  "the  regular  routine  of  petty  occur- 
rences— this  periodical  solemnity  of  trifles — weary  and  disgust 
you  ?  For  my  part,  I  almost  long  for  the  old  days  of  knight- 
errantry,  and  would  rather  be  knocked  on  the  head  by  a  giant, 
or  carried  through  the  air  by  a  flying  grifiin,  than  live  in  this 
circle  of  dull  regularities — the  brute  at  the  mill." 

r  "You  may  live  even  in  these  days,"  answered  St.  John,  "with- 
out too  tame  a  regularity.  Women  and  politics  furnish  ample 
food  for  adventure,  and  you  must  not  judge  of  all  life  by  country 
life." 

:  "  Nor  of  all  conversation,"  said  I,  with  a  look  which  implied 
a  compliment,  "  by  the  iijsipid  idlers  who  fill /out  saloons.    :Be- 


devereux.  39 

hold  them  now,  gathered  by  the  oriel  window,  yonder  ;  precious 
distillers  of  talk — sentinels  of  society  with  certain  set  phrases  as 
watchwords,  which  they  never  exceed  ;  sages,  "who  follow  Face's 
advice  to  Dapper — 

'Hum  thrice,  and  buzz  as  often.'" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Change  of  Prospects — A  new  Insight  into  the  Character  of  the  Hero — A 
Conference  between  two  Brothers. 

A  DAY  or  two  after  the  conversation  recorded  in  my  last 
chapter,  St.  John,  to  my  inexpressible  regret,  left  us  for  London  ; 
however,  we  had  enjoyed  several  conferences  together  during 
his  stay,  and  when  we  parted,  it  was  with  a  pressing  invitation 
on  his  side  to  visit  him  in  London,  and  a  most  faithful  promise 
on  mine,  to  avail  myself  of  the  request. 

No  sooner  was  he  fairly  gone  than  I  went  to  seek  my  uncle  ; 
I  found  him  reading  one  of  Farquhar's  comedies.  Despite  my 
sorrow  at  interrupting  him  in  so  venerable  a  study,  I  was  too 
full  of  my  new  plot  to  heed  breaking  off  that  in  the  comedy.  In 
very  few  words  I  made  the  good  knight  understand  that  his 
descriptions  had  infected  me,  and  that  /  was  dying  to  ascertain 
their  truth  ;  in  a  word,  that  his  hopeful  nephew  was  fully 
bent  on  going  to  town.  My  uncle  first  stared,  then  swore,  then 
paused,  then  looked  at  his  leg,  drew  up  his  stocking,  frowned, 
whistled,  and  told  me  at  last  to  talk  to  him  aboutit  another  time. 
Now,  for  my  part,  I  think  there  are  only  two  classes  of  people  in 
the  world  authorized  to  put  one  off  to  "  another  time," — prime 
ministers  and  creditors  ;  accordingly,  I  would  not  take  my 
uncle's  dismissal.  I  had  not  read  plays,  studied  philosophy, 
and  laid  snares  for  the  Abb6  Montreuil,  without  deriving  some 
little  wisdom  from  my  experience  ;  so  I  took  to  teasing,  and  a 
notable  plan  it  is  too  !  Whoever  has  pursued  it  may  guess  the 
iresult !  My  uncle  yielded,  and  that  day  fortnight  was  fixed  for 
my  departure. 

Oh,  with  what  transport  did  I  look  forward  to  the  comple- 
tion of  my  wishes,  the  goal  of  my  ambition  !  I  hastened  forth — 
I  hurried  into  the  woods — I  sang  out  in  the  gladness  of  my  heart, 
like  a  bird  released — I  drank  in  the  air  with  a  rapturous  sym- 
pathy in  its  freedom  ;  my  step  scarcely  touched  the  earth,  and  my 
whole  frame  seemed  ethereal — elated — exalted — by  the  vivifying 
inspiration  of  my  hopes.     I  paused  by  a  little  streamlet,  which. 


4d  D£VEfefiU!f. 

brawling  over  stones  and  through  unpenelrated  thicknesses  of 
v/ood,  seemed,  like  confined  ambition,  not  the  less  restless  for 
its  obscurity. 

"  Wild  brooklet,"  I  cried,  as  my  thoughts  rushed  into  words, 
"  fret  on,  our  lot  is  no  longer  the  same  ;  your  wanderings  and 
your  murmurs  are  wasted  in  solitude  and  shade  ;  your  voice  dies 
and  re-awakes,  but  without  an  echo  ;  your  waves  spread  around 
their  path  neither  fertility  nor  terror  ;  their  anger  is  idle,  and 
their  freshness  is  lavished  on  a  sterile  soil ;  the  sun  shines  in  vain 
for  you,  through  these  unvarying  wastes  of  silence  and  gloom  ; 
Fortune  freights  not  your  channel  with  her  hoarded  stores,  and 
Pleasure  ventures  not  her  silken  sails  upon  your  tide  ;  not  even 
the  solitary  idler  roves  beside  you,  to  consecrate  with  human 
fellowship  your  melancholy  course ;  no  shape  of  beauty  bends 
over  your  turbid  waters,  or  mirrors  in  your  breast  the  love- 
liness that  hallows  earth.  Lonely  and  sullen,  through  storm  or 
sunshine,  you  repine  along  your  desolate  way  and  only  catch, 
through  the  matted  boughs  that  darken  over  you,  the  beams 
of  the  wan  stars,  which,  like  human  hopes,  tremble  upon  your 
breast,  and  are  broken,  even  before  they  fade,  by  the  very 
turbulence  of  the  surface  on  which  they  fall.  Rove — repine- — 
murmur  on  !  Such  was  my  fate,  but  the  resemblance  is  no 
more.  I  shall  no  longer  be  a  lonely  and  regretful  being  ; 
my  affections  will  no  longer  waste  themselves  upon  barrenness 
and  stone.  I  go  among  the  living  and  warm  world  of  mortal 
energies  and  desires  :  my  existence  shall  glide  alternately  through 
crested  cities,  and  bowers  in  which  Poetry  worships  Love  ;  and 
the  clear  depths  of  my  heart  shall  reflect  whatever  its  young 
dreams  have  shadowed  forth — the  visioned  form — the  gentle  and 
fairy  spirit — the  Eye  of  my  soul's  imagined  and  foreboded 
paradise." 

Venting,  in  this  incoherent  strain,  the  exultation  which  filled 
my  thoughts,  I  wandered  on,  throughout  the  whole  day,  till  my 
spirits  had  exhausted  themselves  by  indulgence  ;  and,  wearied 
alike  by  mental  excitement  and  bodily  exertion,  I  turned,  with 
slow  steps,  towards  the  house.  As  I  ascended  the  gentle  ac- 
clivity on  which  it  stood,  I  saw  a  figure  approaching  towards 
me ;  the  increasing  shades  of  the  evening  did  not  allow  me  to 
recognize  the  shape  until  it  was  almost  by  my  side — it  was 
Aubrey. 

Of  late  I  had  seen  very  little  of  him.  His  devotional  studies 
and  habits  seemed  to  draw  him  from  the  idle  pursuits  of  myself 
and  my  uncle's  guests ;  and  Aubrey  was  one  peculiarly  suscep- 
tible of  neglect,  and  sore,  to  morbidity,  at  the  semblance  of 


linklndness  ;  so  that  he  required  to  be  sought,  and  rarely  troubled 
others  with  advances  :  that  night,  however,  his  greeting  was 
unusually  warm. 

"  I  was  uneasy  about  you,  Morton,"  said  he,  drawing  my  arm 
in  his ;  "you  have  not  been  seen  since  morning;  and,  oh! 
Morton,  my  uncle  told  me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  you  were 
going  to  leave  us.     Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  Had  he  tears  in  his  eyes  ?  Kind  old  man  !  And  you, 
Aubrey,  shall  you,  too,  grieve  for  my  departure  ? " 

"  Can  you  ask  it,  Morton  ?  But  why  will  you  leave  us  ?  Are 
we  not  all  happy  here,  now  ?  Now  that  there  is  no  longer  any 
barrier  or  difference  between  us — now  that  I  may  look  upon 
you,  and  listen  to  you,  and  love  you,  and  own  that  I  love  you  ? 
Why  will  you  leave  us  now  ?  And — (continued  Aubrey,  as  if 
fearful  of  giving  me  time  to  answer) — and  every  one  praises 
you  so  here  ;  and  my  uncle  and  all  of  us  are  so  proud  of  you. 
Why  should  you  desert  our  affections  merely  because  they  are 
not  new  ?  Why  plunge  into  that  hollow  and  cold  world  which 
all  who  have  tried  it  picture  in  such  fearful  hues  ?  Can  you 
find  anything  there  to  repay  you  for  the  love  you  leave  behind  ?  " 

"  My  brother,"  said  I,  mournfully,  and  in  a  tone  which  startled 
him,  it  was  so  different  from  that  which  I  usually  assumed, — 
"  my  brother,  hear,  before  you  reproach  me.  Let  us  sit  down 
upon  this  bank,  and  I  will  suffer  you  to  see  more  of  my  restless 
and  secret  heart  than  any  hitherto  have  beheld." 

We  sat  down  upon  a  little  mound — how  well  I  remember  the 
spot !  I  can  see  the  tree  which  shadows  it  from  my  window 
at  this  moment.  How  many  seasons  have  the  sweet  herb  and 
the  emerald  grass  been  withered  there  and  renewed  !  Ah,  what 
is  this  revival  of  all  things  fresh  and  youthful  in  external  nature, 
but  a  mockery  of  the  wintry  spot  which  lies  perished  and  irre- 
newable  within  ! 

We  drew  near  to  each  other,  and  as  my  arm  wound  around 
him,  I  said,  "  Aubrey,  your  love  has  been  to  me  a  more  precious 
gift  than  any  who  have  not,  like  me,  thirsted  and  longed  even 
for  the  love  of  a  dog,  can  conceive.  Never  let  me  lose  that  af- 
fection !  And  do  not  think  of  me  hereafter  as  of  one  whose 
heart  echoed  all  that  his  lip  uttered.  Do  not  believe  that  irony, 
and  sarcasm,  and  bitterness  of  tongue,  flowed  from  a  malignant 
or  evil  source.  That  disposition  which  seems  to  you  alternately 
so  light  and  gloomy  had,  perhaps,  its  origin  in  a  mind  too  in- 
tense in  its  affections,  and  too  exacting  in  having  them  returned. 
Till  you  sought  my  friendship,  three  short  years  ago,  none  but 
my  uncle,  with  whom  I  could  have  nothing  in  common  but  at- 


42  DEVEREUX. 

tachment,  seemed  to  care  for  my  very  existence.  I  blame  them 
not ;  they  were  deceived  in  my  nature  ;  but  blame  me  not  too 
severely  if  my  temper  suffered  from  their  mistake.  Your  friend- 
ship came  to  me,  not  too  late  to  save  me  from  a  premature  mis- 
anthropy, but  too  late  to  eradicate  every  morbidity  of  mind. 
Something  of  sternness  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  satire  on  the 
other,  has  mingled  so  long  with  my  better  feelings  that  the  taint 
and  the  stream  have  become  inseparable.  Do  not  sigh,  Aubrey. 
To  be  unamiable  is  not  to  be  ungrateful ;  and  I  shall  not  love 
you  the  less  if  I  have  but  a  few  objects  to  love.  You  ask  me 
my  inducement  to  leave  you.  *  The  World  '  will  be  sufficient 
answer.  I  cannot  share  your  contempt  of  it,  nor  your  fear.  I 
am,  and  have  been  of  late,  consumed  with  a  thirst — eager,  and 
burning,  and  unquenchable — it  is  ambition  !  " 

"Oh,  Morton  !  "  said  Aubrey,  with  a  second  sigh,  longer  and 
deeper  than  the  first — "that  evil  passion!  the  passion  which 
lost  an  angel  Heaven." 

"  Let  us  not  now  dispute,  my  brother,  whether  it  be  sinful  in 
itself,  or  whether,  if  its  object  be  virtuous,  it  is  not  a  virtue.  In 
baring  my  soul  before  you,  I  only  speak  of  my  motives  ;  and 
seek  not  to  excuse  them.  Perhaps  on  this  earth  there  is  no 
good  without  a  little  evil.  When  my  mind  was  once  turned  to 
the  acquisition  of  mental  superiority,  every  petty  acquisition  I 
made  increased  my  desire  to  attain  more,  and  partial  emulation 
soon  widened  into  universal  ambition.  We  three,  Gerald  and 
ourselves,  are  the  keepers  of  a  treasure  more  valuable  than 
gold — the  treasure  of  a  not  ignoble  nor  sullied  name.  For  my 
part,  I  confess  that  I  am  impatient  to  increase  the  store  of  honor 
which  our  father  bequeathed  to  us.  Nor  is  this  all :  despite 
our  birth,  we  are  poor  in  the  gifts  of  fortune.  We  are  all  de- 
pendents on  my  uncle's  favor ;  and,  however  we  may  deserve 
it,  there  would  be  something  better  in  earning  an  independence 
for  ourselves." 

"  That,"  said  Aubrey,  "  may  be  an  argument  for  mine  and 
Gerald's  exertions;  but  not  for  yours.  You  are  the  eldest,  and 
my  uncle's  favorite.  Nature  and  affection  both  point  to  you 
as  his  heir." 

"If  so,  Aubrey,  may  many  years  pass  before  that  inheritance 
be  mine.  Why  should  those  years,  that  might  produce  so 
much,  lie  fallow?  But  though  I  would  not  affect  an  unreal 
delicacy,  and  disown  my  chance  of  future  fortune,  yet  you  must 
remember  that  it  is  a  matter  possible,  not  certain.  My  birth- 
right gives  me  no  claim  over  my  uncle,  whose  estates  are  in  his 
cwn  gift ;  and  favor,  even  in  the  good,  is  a  wind  which  varies 


DEVEREUX.  43 

without  power  on  our  side  to  calculate  the  season  or  the  cause. 
However  this  be, — and  I  love  the  person  on  whom  fortune  de- 
pends so  much  that  I  cannot,  without  pain,  speak  of  the  mere 
chance  of  its  passing  from  his  possession  into  mine, — you  will 
o.wn  at  least  that  I  shall  not  hereafter  deserve  wealth  the  less 
for  the  advantages  of  experience." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Aubrey,  raising  his  eyes,  "  the  worship  of  our 
Father  in  Heaven  finds  us  ample  cause  for  occupation,  even  in 
retirement ;  and  the  more  we  mix  with  His  creatures,  the  more, 
I  fear,  we  may  forget  the  Creator.  But,  if  it  must  be  so,  I  will 
pray  for  you,  Morton  ;  and  you  will  remember  that  the  power- 
less and  poor  Aubrey  can  still  lift  up  his  voice  in  your  behalf." 

As  Aubrey  thus  spoke,  I  looked  with  mingled  envy  and  ad- 
miration upon  the  countenance  beside  me,  which  the  beauty  of 
a  spirit  seemed  at  once  to  soften  and  to  exalt. 

Since  our  conference  had  begun,  the  dusk  of  twilight  had 
melted  away  ;  and  the  moon  had  called  into  lustre — living,  in- 
deed, but  unlike  the  common  and  unhallowing  life  of  day — the 
wood  and  herbage,  and  silent  variationsof  hill  and  valley,  which 
slept  around  us  ;  and,  as  the  still  and  shadowy  light  fell  over 
the  upward  face  of  my  brother,  it  gave  to  his  features  an  addi- 
tional, and  not  wholly  earth-born,  solemnity  of  expression. 
There  was  indeed  in  his  face  and  air  that  from  which  the  painter 
of  a  seraph  might  not  have  disdained  to  copy ;  something  re- 
sembling the  vision  of  an  angel  in  the  dark  eyes  that  swam  with 
tears,  in  which  emotion  had  so  little  of  mortal  dross — in  the 
youthful  and  soft  cheeks,  which  the  earnestness  of  divine 
thought  had  refined  by  a  pale  but  transparent  hue — in  the  high 
and  unclouded  forehead,  over  which  the  hair,  parted  in  the 
centre,  fell  in  long  and  wavelike  curls — and  in  the  lips,  silent, 
yet  moving  with  internal  prayer,  which  seemed  the  more  fer- 
vent, because  unheard. 

I  did  not  interrupt  him  in  the  prayer,  which  my  soul  felt, 
though  my  ear  caught  it  not,  was  for  me.  But  when  he  had 
ceased,  and  turned  towards  me,  I  clasped  him  to  my  breast. 
"  My  brother,"  I  said,  "  we  shall  part,  it  is  true,  but  not  till  our 
hearts  have  annihilated  the  space  that  was  between  them  ;  not 
till  we  have  felt  that  the  love  of  brotherhood  can  pass  the  love 
of  woman.  Whatever  await  you,  your  devoted  and  holy  mind 
will  be,  if  not  your  shield  from  affliction,  at  least  your  balm  for 
its  wounds.  Remain  here.  The  quiet  which  breathes  around 
you  well  becomes  your  tranquillity  within  ;  and  sometimes  bless 
me  in  your  devotions,  as  you  have  done  now.  For  me,  I  shall 
not  regret  those  harder  and  harsher  qualities  which  you  blame 


44  DEVEREUX. 

in  me,  if  hereafter  their  very  sternness  can  afford  me  an  op- 
portunity of  protecting  your  gentleness  from  evil,  or  redressing 
the  wrongs  from  which  your  nature  may  be  too  innocent  to  pre- 
serve you.  And  now  let  us  return  home,  in  the  conviction  that 
we  have  in  our  friendship  one  treasure  beyond  the  reach  pf 
fate." 

Aubrey  did  not  answer  ;  but  he  kissed  my  forehead,  and  I 
felt  his  tears  upon  my  cheek.  We  rose,  and  with  arms  still 
embracing  each  other  as  we  walked,  bent  our  steps  to  the  house. 

Ah,  earth  !  what  hast  thou  more  beautiful  than  the  love  of 
those  whose  ties  are  knit  by  nature,  and  whose  union  seems  or- 
dained to  begin  from  the  very  moment  of  their  birth  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

First  Love. 

We  are  under  very  changeful  influences  in  this  world  !  The 
night  on  which  occurred  the  interview  with  Aubrey,  that  I  have 
just  narrated,  I  was  burning  to  leave  Devereux  Court.  Within 
one  little  week  from  that  time  my  eagerness  was  wonderfully 
abated.  The  sagacious  reader  will  readily  discover  the  cause 
of  this  alteration.  About  eight  miles  from  my  uncle's  house 
was  a  seaport  town  ;  there  were  many  and  varied  rides  leading 
to  it,  and  the  town  was  a  favorite  place  of  visitation  with  all  the 
family.  Within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  town  was  a  small 
cottage,  prettily  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  garden,  kept  with 
singular  neatness,  and  ornamented  with  several  rare  shrubs  and 
exotics.  I  had  more  than  once  observed  in  the  garden  of  this 
house  a  female  in  the  very  first  blush  of  youth,  and  beautiful 
enough  to  excite  within  me  a  strong  curiosity  to  learn  the  owner 
of  the  cottage.  I  inquired,  and  ascertained  that  its  tenant  was 
a  Spaniard  of  high  birth,  and  one  who  had  acquired  a  melan- 
choly celebrity  by  his  conduct  and  misfortunes  in  the  part  he 
had  taken  in  a  certain  feeble  but  gallant  insurrection  in  his  na- 
tive country.     He  had  only  escaped  with  life  and  a  very  small 

sum  of  money,  and  now  lived  in  the  obscure  seaport  of ,  a 

refugee  and  a  recluse.  He  was  a  widower,  and  had  only  one 
child — a  daughter  ;  and  I  was  therefore  at  no  loss  to  discover 
who  was  the  beautiful  female  I  had  noted  and  admired. 

On  the  day  after  my  conversation  with  Aubrey,  detailed  in 
the  last  chapter,  in  riding  past  this  cottage  alone,  I  perceived  a 


DEVEREUX.  45 

crowd  assembled  round  the  entrance  ;  I  paused  to  inquire  the 
-  cause. 

"  Why,  your  honor,"  quoth  a  senior  of  the  village,  "  I  believe 
the  tipstaves  be  come  to  take  the  foreigner  for  not  paying  his 
rent  ;  and  he  does  not  understand  our  English  liberty  like,  and 
has  drawn  his  sword,  and  swears,  in  his  outlandish  lingo,  he 
will  not  be  made  prisoner  alive." 

I  required  no  further  inducement  to  make  me  enter  the  house. 
The  crowd  gave  way  when  they  saw  me  dismount,  and  suffered 
me  to  penetrate  into  the  first  apartment.  There  I  found  the 
gallant  old  Spaniard  with  his  sword  drawn,  keeping  at  bay  a 
couple  of  sturdy  looking  men,  who  appeared  to  be  only  pre- 
vented from  using  violence  by  respect  for  the  person,  or  the 
safety,  of  a  young  woman,  who  clung  to  her  father's  knees,  and 
implored  him  not  to  resist,  where  resistance  was  so  unavailing. 
Let  me  cut  short  this  scene — I  dismissed  the  bailiffs,  and  paid 
the  debt.  I  then  endeavored  to  explain  to  the  Spaniard,  in 
French,  for  he  scarcely  understood  three  words  of  our  language, 
the  cause  of  a  rudeness  towards  him  which  he  persisted  in  call- 
ing a  great  insult  and  inhospitality  manifested  to  a  stranger  and 
an  exile.  I  succeeded  at  length  in  pacifying  him.  I  remained 
for  more  than  an  hour  at  the  cottage,  and  I  left  it  with  a  heart 
beating  at  the  certain  persuasion  that  I  had  established  therein 
the  claim  of  acquaintance  and  visitation. 

Will  the  reader  pardon  me  for  having  curtailed  this  scene? 
It  is  connected  witli  a  subject  on  which  I  shall  better  endure 
to  dwell  as  my  narrative  proceeds.  From  that  time  I  paid 
frequent  visits  to  the  cottage  ;  the  Spaniard  soon  grew  intimate 
with  me,  and  I  thought  the  daughter  began  to  blush  when  I 
entered,  and  to  sigh  when  I  departed. 

One  evening  I  was  conversing  with  Don  Diego  D'Alvarez 
(such  was  the  Spaniard's  name),  as  he  sat  without  his  threshold, 
inhaling  the  gentle  air  that  stole  freshness  from  the  rippling 
sea  that  spread  before  us,  and  fragrance  from  the  earth,  over 
which  the  summer  now  reigned  in  its  most  mellow  glory.  Isora 
(the  daughter)  sat  at  a  little  distance. 

"  How  comes  it,"  said  Don  Diego,  "  that  you  have  never  met 
our  friend  Senor  Bar — Bar — these  English  names  are  always 
escaping  my  memory.     How  is  he  called,  Isora?  " 

"  Mr. — Mr.  Barnard,"  said  Isora  (who,  brought  early  to 
England,  spoke  its  language  like  a  native),  but  with  evident 
confusion,  and  looking  down  as  she  spoke — "  Mr.  Barnard,  I 
believe  you  mean." 

"Right,  my  love,"  rejoined  the  Spaniard,  who  was  smoking 


1|6  DEVEREUX. 

a  long  pipe  with  great  gravity,  and  did  not  notice  his  daughter's 
embarrassment — "  a  fine  youth,  but  somewhat  shy  and  over- 
modest  in  manner." 

"  Youth  !  "  thought  I,  and  I  darted  a  piercing  look  towards. 
Isora.  "  How  comes  it,  indeed,"  I  said  aloud,  "  that  I  have 
not  met  him  ?     Is  he  a  friend  of  long  standing  ? " 

"  Nay,  not  very — perhaps  of  some  six  weeks  earlier  date  than 
you,  Senor  Don  Devereux.  I  pressed  him,  when  he  called  this 
morning,  to  tarry  your  coming  ;  but,  poor  youth,  he  is  diffi- 
dent, and  not  yet  accustomed  to  mix  freely  with  strangers, 
especially  those  of  rank  ;  our  own  presence  a  little  overawes 
him" — and  from  Don  Diego's  gray  mustachios  issued  a  yet 
fuller  cloud  than  was  ordinarily  wont  to  emerge  thence. 

My  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Isora  ;  she  looked  up,  met  them, 
blushed  deeply,  rose,  and  disappeared  within  the  house.  I  was 
already  susceptible  of  jealousy.  My  lip  trembled,  as  I  resunied  : 
"And  will  Don  Diego  pardon  me  for  inquiring  how  com- 
menced his  knowledge  of  this  ingenuous  youth?" 

The  question  was  a  little  beyond  the  pale  of  good  breeding ; 
perhaps  the  Spaniard,  who  was  tolerably  punctilious  in  such 
matters,  thought  so,  for  he  did  not  reply.  I  was  sensible  of  my 
error,  and  apologizing  for  it,  insinuated,  nevertheless,  the 
question  in  a  more  respectful  and  covert  shape.  Still  Don 
Diego,  inhaling  the  fragrant  weed  with  renewed  vehemence, 
only — like  Pion's  tomb,  recorded  by  Pausanias — replied  to  the 
request  of  his  petitioner  by  smoke.  I  did  not  venture  to  renew 
my  interrogatories,  and  there  was  a  long  silence.  My  eyes 
fixed  their  gaze  on  the  door  by  which  Isora  had  disappeared. 
In  vain  ;  she  returned  not — and  as  the  chill  of  the  increasing 
evening  began  now  to  make  itself  felt  by  the  frame  of  one 
accustomed  to  warmer  skies,  the  Spaniard  soon  rose  to  re-enter 
his  house,  and  I  took  my  farewell  for  the  night. 

There  were  many  ways  (as  I  before  said)  by  which  I  could 
return  home,  all  nearly  equal  in  picturesque  beauty  ;  for  the 
county  in  which  my  uncle's  estates  were  placed  was  one  where 
stream  roved  and  woodland  flourished  even  to  the  very  strand, 
or  cliff  of  the  sea.  The  shortest  route,  though  one  the  least 
frequented  by  any  except  foot-passengers,  was  along  the  coast, 
and  it  was  by  this  path  that  I  rode  slowly  homeward.  On 
winding  a  curve  in  the  road  about  one  mile  from  Devereux 
Court,  the  old  building  broke  slowly,  tower  by  tower,  upon  me. 
I  have  never  yet  described  the  house,  and  perhaps  it  will  not 
be  uninteresting  to  the  reader  if  I  do  so  now. 

It  had  anciently  belonged  to  Ralph  de  Bigod-     From  his 


DEVEREUX,  47 

possession  It  had  passed  into  that  of  the  then  noblest  branch 
of  the  stem  of  Devereux,  whence,  without  break  or  flaw  in  the 
direct  line  of  heritage,  it  had  ultimately  descended  to  the 
present  owner.  It  was  a  pile  of  vast  extent,  built  around  three 
quadrangular  courts,  the  farthest  of  which  spread  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  gray,  tall  cliffs  that  overhung  the  sea  :  in  this  court 
was  a  rude  tower,  which,  according  to  tradition,  had  contained 
the  apartments  ordinarily  inhabited  by  our  ill-fated  namesake 
and  distant  kinsman,  Robert  Devereux,  the  favorite  and  the 
victim  of  Elizabeth,  whenever  he  had  honored  the  mansion 
with  a  visit.  There  was  nothing,  it  is  true,  in  the  old  tower 
calculated  to  flatter  the  tradition,  for  it  contained  only  two 
habitable  rooms,  communicating  with  each  other,  and  by  no 
means  remarkable  for  size  or  splendor ;  and  every  one  of  our 
household,  save  myself,  was  wont  to  discredit  the  idle  rumor 
which  would  assign  to  so  distinguished  a  guest  so  unseemly  a 
lodgment.  But,  as  I  looked  from  the  narrow  lattices  of  the 
chambers,  over  the  wide  expanse  of  ocean  and  of  land  which 
they  commanded — as  1  noted,  too,  that  the  tower  was  utterly 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  and  that  the  convenience 
of  its  site  enabled  one,  on  quitting  it,  to  escape  at  once,  and 
privately,  either  to  the  solitary  beach  or  to  the  glades  and 
groves  of  the  wide  park  which  stretched  behind — I  could  not 
help  indulging  the  belief  that  the  unceremonious,  and  not  un- 
romantic  noble,  had  himself  selected  his  place  of  retirement, 
and  that,  in  so  doing,  the  gallant  of  a  stately  court  was  not, 
perhaps,  undesirous  of  securing  at  well-chosen  moments  a  brief 
relaxation  from  the  heavy  honors  of  country  homage — or  that 
the  patron  and  poetic  admirer  of  the  dreaming  Spenser  might 
have  preferred,  to  all  more  gorgeous  accommodation,  the  quiet 
and  unseen  egress  to  that  sea  and  shore,  which,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve the  accomplished  Roman,*  are  so  fertile  in  the  powers  of 
inspiration. 

However  this  be,  I  had  cheated  myself  into  the  belief  that 
my  conjecture  was  true,  and  I  had  petitioned  my  uncle,  when, 
on  leaving  school,  he  assigned  to  each  of  us  our  several  apart- 
ments, to  grant  me  the  exclusive  right  to  this  dilapidated  tower. 
I  gained  my  boon  easily  enough  ;  and^so  strangely  is  our 
future  fate  compounded  from  past  trifles — I  verily  believe  that 
the  strong  desire  which  thenceforth  seized  me  to  visit  courts, 
Hud  mix  with  statesmen — which  afterwards  hurried  me  into 

•  "  O  mare,  O  litus,  venira  secretumque  Mouseion,  quam  multa  dictatis— quam  multa 
tnvenitis  !  " — Plinius. 

"  O  sea,  O  shore,  trne  and  secret  sanctuary  »{  the  Muses,  how  many  things  ye  dictatei 
bow  many  things  ye  discover,"  "5 


48  DEVEREUX. 

intrigue,  war,  the  plots  of  London,  the  dissipations  of  Paris,  the 
perilous  schemes  of  Petersburg,  nay,  the  very  hardships  of  a 
Cossack  tent — was  first  formed  by  the  imaginary  lionor  of  in- 
habiting the  same  chamber  as  the  glittering  but  ill-fated 
courtier  of  my  own  name.  Thus  youth  imitates,  where  it 
should  avoid  ;  and  thus  that  which  should  have  been  to  me  a 
warning  became  an  example. 

In  the  oaken  floor  to  the  outer  chamber  of  this  tower  was 
situated  a  trap-door,  the  entrance  into  a  lower  room  or  rather 
cell,  fitted  up  as  a  bath ;  and  here  a  wooden  door  opened  into 
a  long  subterranean  passage  that  led  out  into  a  cavern  by  the 
sea-shore.  This  cave,  partly  by  nature,  partly  by  art,  was 
hollowed  into  a  beautiful  Gothic  form  :  and  here,  on  moonlight 
evenings,  when  the  sea  crept  gently  over  the  yellow  and  smooth 
sands,  and  the  summer  tempered  the  air  from  too  keen  a  fresh- 
ness, my  uncle  had  often  in  his  younger  days,  ere  gout  and 
rheum  had  grown  familiar  images,  assembled  his  guests.  It 
was  a  place  which  the  echoes  peculiarly  adapted  for  music ; 
and  the  scene  was  certainly  not  calculated  to  diminish  the 
effect  of  "sweet  sounds."  Even  now,  though  my  uncle  rarely 
joined  us,  we  were  often  wont  to  hold  our  evening  revels  in 
this  spot ;  and  the  high  cliffs,  circling  either  side  in  the  form 
of  a  bay,  tolerably  well  concealed  our  meetings  from  the  gaze 
of  the  vulgar.  It  is  true  (for  these  cliffs  were  perforated  with 
numerous  excavations),  that  some  roving  peasant,  mariner,  or 
perchance  smuggler,  would  now  and  then,  at  low  water,  intrude 
upon  us.  But  our  London  Nereids  and  courtly  Tritons  were 
always  well  pleased  with  the  interest  of  what  they  graciously 
termed  "  an  adventure  ":  and  our  assemblies  were  too  numer- 
ous to  think  an  unbroken  secrecy  indispensable.  Hence, 
therefore,  the  cavern  was  almost  considered  a  part  of  the 
house  itself  ;  and  though  there  was  an  iron  door  at  the  entrance 
which  it  gave  to  the  passage  leading  to  my  apartments,  yet  so 
great  was  our  confidence  in  our  neighbors  or  ourselves  that  it 
was  rarely  secured,  save  as  a  defence  against  the  high  tides  of 
winter. 

The  stars  were  shining  quietly  over  the  old  gray  castle  (for 
castle  it  really  was),  as  I  now  came  within  view  of  it.  To  the 
left,  and  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  the  trees  of  the  park,  grouped 
by  distance,  seemed  blent  into  one  thick  mass  of  wood  ;  to  the 
right,  as  I  now  (descending  the  cliff  by  a  gradual  path,)  entered 
on  the  level  sands,  and  at  about  the  distance  of  a  league  from 
the  main  shore,  a  small  islet,  notorious  as  the  resort  and  shelter 
of  contraband  adventurers,  scarcely  relieved  the  wide  and  glassy 


DEVEREUX.  49 

azure  ot  the  waves.  The  tide  was  out ;  and  passing  through 
one  of  the  arches  worn  in  the  bay,  I  came  somewhat  suddenly 
by  the  cavern.     Seated  there  on  a  crag  of  stone  I  found  Aubrey. 

My  acquaintance  with  Isora  and  her  father  had  so  immediately 
succeeded  the  friendly  meeting  with  Aubrey  which  I  last  re- 
corded, and  had  so  utterly  engrossed  my  time  and  thoughts, 
that  I  had  not  taken  of  that  interview  all  the  brotherly  advan- 
tage which  I  might  have  done.  My  heart  now  smote  me  for 
my  involuntary  negligence.  I  dismounted,  and  fastening  my 
horse  to  one  of  a  long  line  of  posts  that  ran  into  the  sea,  ap- 
proached Aubrey  and  accosted  him, 

"Alone,  Aubrey?  and  at  an  hour  when  my  uncle  always 
makes  the  old  walls  ring  with  revel !  Hark,  can  you  not  hear 
the  music  even  now  ?  it  comes  from  the  ball-room,  I  think, 
does  it  not  ? " 

"Yes!"  said  Aubrey,  briefly,  and  looking  down  upon  a 
devotional  book,  which  (as  was  his  wont)  he  had  made  his 
companion. 

"And  we  are  the  only  truants! — Well,  Gerald  will  supply 
our  places  with  a  lighter  step,  and,  perhaps,  a  merrier  heart." 

Aubrey  sighed.  I  bent  over  him  affectionately  (I  loved  that 
boy  with  something  of  a  father's  as  well  as  a  brother's  love), 
and  as  I  did  bend  over  him,  I  saw  that  his  eyelids  were  red 
with  weeping. 

"My  brother — my  own  dear  brother,"  said  I,  "what  grieves 
you  ? — are  we  not  friends,  and  more  than  friends  ? — what  can 
grieve  you  that  grieves  not  me?" 

Suddenly  raising  his  head,  Aubrey  gazed  at  me  with  a  long, 
searching  intentness  of  eye;  his  lips  moved,  but  he  did  not 
answer. 

"Speak  to  me,  Aubrey,"  said  t,  passing  my  arm  over  his 
shoulder;  "has  any  one,  any  thing,  hurt  you?  See,  now,  if  I 
cannot  remedy  the  evil." 

"  Morton,"  said  Aubrey,  speaking  very  slowly,  "  do  you  believe 
that  Heaven  pre-orders  as  well  as  foresees  our  destiny?" 

"It  is  the  schoolman's  question,"  said  I,  smiling,  "but  I 
know  how  these  idle  subtleties  vex  the  mind — and  you,  my 
brother,  are  ever  too  occupied  with  considerations  of  the  future. 
If  Heaven  does  pre-order  our  destiny,  we  know  that  Heaven  is 
merciful,  and  we  should  be  fearless,  as  we  arm  ourselves  in 
that  knowledge." 

"  Morton  Devereux,"  said  Aubrey,  again  repeating  my  name, 
and  with  an  evident  inward  effort  that  left  his  lip  colorless,  and 
yet  lit  his  dark  dilating  eye  with  a  strange  and  unwonted  fire— 


§6  DEVEREtJX. 

"Morton  Devereux,  I  feel  that  1  am  predestined  to  the  powef 
of  the  Evil  One  !  " 

I  drew  back,  inexpressibly  shocked.  "  Good  Heavens  ! "  I 
exclaimed,  "what  can  induce  you  to  cherish  so  terrible  a  phan- 
tasy ?  What  can  induce  you  to  wrong  so  fearfully  the  goodness 
and  mercy  of  our  Creator  ?" 

Aubrey  shrunk  from  my  arm,  which  had  still  been  round  him, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  I  took  up  the  book  he 
had  been  reading :  it  was  a  Latin  treatise  on  predestination, 
and  seemed  fraught  with  the  most  gloomy  and  bewildering 
subtleties.  I  sat  down  beside  him,  and  pointed  out  the  various 
incoherencies  and  contradictions  of  the  work,  and  the  doctrine 
it  espoused — so  long  and  so  earnestly  did  I  speak  that  at  length 
Aubrey  looked  up,  seemingly  cheered  and  relieved. 

"I  wish,"  said  he  timidly,  "I  wish  that  you  loved  me,  and 
that  you  loved  me  only : — but  you  love  pleasure,  and  power,  and 
show,  and  wit,  and  revelry ;  and  you  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel 
for  me,  as  I  feel  at  times  for  you — nay,  perhaps  you  really 
dislike  or  despise  me  !  " 

Aubrey's  voice  grew  bitter  in  its  tone  as  he  concluded  these 
words,  and  I  was  instantly  impressed  with  the  belief  that  some 
one  had  insinuated  distrust  of  my  affection  for  him. 

"Why  should  you  think  thus?"  I  said:  "has  any  cause 
occurred  of  late  to  make  you  deem  my  affection  for  you  weaker 
than  it  was  ?  Has  any  one  hinted  a  surmise  that  I  do  not  repay 
your  brotherly  regard  ?  " 

Aubrey  did  not  answer. 

"Has  Gerald,"  I  continued,  ''  jealous  of  our  mutual  attach- 
ment, uttered  aught  tending  to  diminish  it  ?  Yes,  I  see  that 
he  has ! " 

Aubrey  remained  motionless,  sullenly  gazing  downward,  and 
still  silent. 

"Speak,"  said  I,  "in  justice  to  both  of  us — speak!  You 
know,  Aubrey,  how  I  have  loved  and  love  you  :  put  your  arms 
round  me,  and  say  that  thing  on  earth  which  you  wish  me  to 
do,  and  it  shall  be  done  !  " 

Aubrey  looked  up  ;  he  met  my  eyes,  and  he  threw  himself 
upon  my  neck,  and  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm  of  tears. 

I  was  greatly  affected.  "I  see  my  fault,"  said  I,  soothing 
him  ;  "you  are  angry,  and  with  justice,  that  I  have  neglected 
you  of  late ;  and,  perhaps,  while  I  ask  your  confidence,  you 
suspect  that  there  is  some  subject  on  which  I  should  have  granted 
you  mine.  You  are  right,  and,  at  a  fitter  moment,  I  will.  Now 
let  us  turn  homeward ;  our  uncle  is  never  merry  when  we  are 


DEVEREUX.  51 

absent ;  and  when  my  mother  misses  your  dark  locks  and  fair 
cheek,  I  fancy  that  she  sees  little  beauty  in  the  ball.  And  yet, 
Aubrey,"  I  added,  as  he  now  rose  from  my  embrace,  and  dried 
his  tears,  "  I  will  own  to  you  that  I  love  this  scene  better  than 
any,  however  gay,  within  ;"  and  I  turned  to  the  sea,  starlit  as 
it  was,  and  murmuring  with  a  silver  voice,  and  I  became  sud- 
denly silent. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  I  believe  we  both  felt  the  influence 
of  the  scene  around  us,  softening  and  tranquillizing  our  hearts  ; 
for,  at  length,  Aubrey  put  his  hand  in  mine,  and  said,  "  You 
were  always  more  generous  and  kind  than  I,  Morton,  though 
there  are  times  when  you  seem  different  from  what  you  are  ; 
and  I  know  you  have  already  forgiven  me." 

1  drew  him  affectionately  towards  me,  and  we  went  home. 

But  although  I  meant,  from  that  night,  to  devote  myself  more 
to  Aubrey  than  I  had  done  of  late,  my  hourly  increasing  love 
for  Isora  interfered  greatly  with  my  resolution.  In  order,  how- 
ever, to  excuse  any  future  neglect,  I,  the  very  next  morning,  be- 
stowed upon  him  my  confidence.  Aubrey  did  not  much  encourage 
my  passion  :  he  represented  to  me  Isora's  situation — my  own 
youth — my  own  worldly  ambition — and,  more  than  all  (remind- 
ing me  of  my  uncle's  aversion  even  to  the  most  prosperous  and 
well-suited  marriage),  he  insisted  upon  the  certainty  that  Sir 
William  would  never  yield  consent  to  the  lawful  consummation 
of  so  unequal  a  love.  I  was  not  too  well  pleased  with  this  re- 
ception of  my  tale,  and  I  did  not  much  trouble  my  adviser  with 
any  farther  communication  and  confidence  on  the  subject. 
Day  after  day  I  renewed  my  visits  to  the  Spaniard's  cottage; 
and  yet  time  passed  on,  and  I  had  not  told  Isora  a  syllable  of 
my  love.  I  was  inexpressibly  jealous  of  this  Barnard,  whom 
her  father  often  eulogized,  and  whom  I  never  met.  There  ap- 
peared to  be  some  mystery  in  his  acquaintance  with  Don  Diego, 
which  that  personage  carefully  concealed  ;  and  once,  when  I 
was  expressing  my  surprise  to  have  so  often  missed  seeing  his 
friend,  the  Spaniard  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  said  that  he 
had  now  learnt  the  real  reason  for  it:  there  were  circumstances 
of  state  which  made  men  fearful  of  new  acquaintances,  eveh  in 
their  own  country.  He  drew  back,  as  if  he  had  said  too  much, 
and  left  me  the  conjecture  that  Barnard  was  connected  with 
him  in  some  intrigue,  more  delightful  in  itself  than  agreeable 
to  the  government.  This  belief  was  strengthened  by  my  noting 
that  Alvarez  was  frequently  absent  from  home,  and  this,  too,  in 
the  evening,  when  he  was  generally  wont  to  shun  the  bleakness 
of  the  English  air — an  atmosphere,  by  the  by,  which  I  once 


52 


t)EV£feEUX. 


heard  a  Frenchman  wittily  compare  to  Augustus  placed  between 
Horace  and  Virgil;  viz.,  in  the  bon  motoi  the  emperor  himself — 
between  sighs  and  tears. 

But  Isora  herself  never  heard  the  name  of  this  Barnard  men- 
tioned without  a  visible  confusion,  which  galled  me  to  the  heart; 
and  at  length,  unable  to  endure  any  longer  my  suspense  upon 
the  subject,  I  resolved  to  seek  from  her  own  lips  its  termination. 
I  long  tarried  my  opportunity:  it  was  one  evening,  that,  coming 
rather  unexpectedly  to  the  cottage,  I  was  informed  by  the  single 
servant  that  Don  Diego  had  gone  to  the  neighboring  town,  but 
that  Isora  was  in  the  garden.  Small  as  it  was,  this  garden  had 
been  cultivated  with  some  care,  and  was  not  devoid  of  variety. 
A  high  and  very  thick  fence  of  living  boxwood,  closely  inter- 
laced with  the  honeysuckle  and  the  common  rose,  screened  a 
few  plots  of  rarer  flowers,  a  small  circular  fountain,  and  a  rustic 
arbor,  both  from  the  sea  breezes  and  the  eyes  of  any  passer  by, 
to  which  the  open  and  sheltered  portion  of  the  garden  was  ex- 
posed. When  I  passed  through  the  opening  cut  in  the  fence, 
I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  not  immediately  seeing  Isora.  Per- 
haps she  was  in  the  arbor.  I  approached  the  arbor  tremblingly. 
What  was  my  astonishment  and  my  terror  when  I  beheld  her 
stretched  lifeless  on  the  ground. 

I  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  sprang  forwards.  I  raised  her  from 
the  earth,  and  supported  her  in  my  arms ;  her  complexion — 
through  whose  pure  and  transparent  white  the  wandering  blood 
was  wont  so  gently,  yet  so  glowingly,  to  blush,  undulating  while 
it  blushed,  as  youngest  rose-leaves  which  the  air  just  stirs  into 
trembling — was  blanched  into  the  hues  of  death.  My  kisses 
tinged  it  with  a  momentary  color  not  its  own  ;  and  yet  as  I 
pressed  her  to  my  heart,  methought  hers,  which  seemed  still  be- 
fore, began, as  if  by  an  involuntary  sympathy,  palpably  and  sud- 
denly to  throb  against  my  own.  My  alarm  melted  away  as  I 
held  her  thus — nay,  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  have  recalled  her 
yet  to  life ;  I  was  forgetful — I  was  unheeding — I  was  uncon- 
scious of  all  things  else — a  few  broken  and  passionate  words  es- 
caped my  lips,  but  even  they  ceased  when  I  felt  her  breath  just 
stirring  and  mingling  with  my  own.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  all 
living  kind  but  ourselves  had,  by  a  spell,  departed  from  .the 
earth,  and  we  were  left  alone  with  the  breathless  and  inaudible 
Nature  from  which  spring  the  love  and  the  life  of  all  things. 

Isora  slowly  recovered  ;  her  eyes,  in  opening,  dwelt  upon 
mine — her  blood  rushed  at  once  to  her  cheek,  and  as  suddenly 
left  it  hueless  as  before.  She  rose  from  my  embrace,  but  I  still 
extended  ray  arms  towards  her ;  and  words  over  which  1  had 


t)£VEREUiC.  53 

no  control,  and  of  which  now  I  have  no  remembrance,  rushed 
from  my  lips.  Still  pale,  and  leaning  against  the  side  of  the  arbor, 
Isora  heard  me,  as — confused,  incoherent,  impetuous,  but  still  in- 
telligible to  her — my  released  heart  poured  itself  forth.  And 
when  I  had  ceased,  she  turned  her  face  towards  me,  and  my  blood 
seemed  frozen  in  its  channel.  Anguish,  deep,  ineffable  anguish, 
was  depicted  upon  every  feature  ;  and  when  she  strove  at  last 
to  speak,  her  lips  quivered  so  violently  that,  after  a  vain  effort, 
she  ceased  abruptly.  I  again  approached — I  seized  her  hand, 
which  I  covered  with  my  kisses. 

"Will  you  not  answer  me,  Isora?"  said  I  tremblingly.  ^^  Be 
silent  then  ;  but  give  me  one  look,  one  glance  of  hope,  of  par- 
don, from  those  dear  eyes,  and  I  ask  no  more." 

Isora's  whole  frame  seemed  sinking  beneath  her  emotions; 
she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  hurriedly  and  fearfully  round; 
my  eye  followed  hers,  and  I  then  saw  upon  the  damp  ground, 
the  recent  print  of  a  man's  footsteps,  not  my  own;  and  close  to 
the  spot  where  I  had  found  Isora,  lay  a  man's  glove.  A  pang 
shot  through  me — I  felt  my  eyes  flash  fire,  and  my  brow  darken, 
as  I  turned  to  Isora,  and  said,  "  I  see  it — I  see  it  all, — I  have  a 
rival,  who  has  but  just  left  you — you  love  me  not — your  affections 
are  for  him  ! " — Isora  sobbed  violently,  but  made  no  reply, 
"You  love  him,"  said  I,  but  in  a  milder  and  more  mournful 
tone — "you  love  him — it  is  enough — I  will  persecute  you  no 
more  ;  and  yet — "  I  paused  a  moment,  for  the  remembrance 
of  many  a  sign,  which  my  heart  had  interpreted  flatteringly, 
flashed  upon  me,  and  my  voice  faltered.  "  Well,  I  have  no 
right  to  murmur — only,  Isora — only  tell  me  with  your  lips  that 
you  love  another,  and  I  will  depart  in  peace." 

Very  slowly  Isora  turned  her  eyes  to  me,  and  even  through 
her  tears  they  dwelt  upon  me  with  a  tender  and  a  soft  reproach, 

'*  You  love  another  ? "  said  I — and  from  her  lips,  which  scarce- 
ly parted,  came  a  single  word  which  thrilled  to  my  heart  like 
fire,— "^^./" 

"No!"  I  repeated,  "No? — say  that  again,  and  again;  yet 
who  then  is  this  that  has  dared  so  to  agitate  and  overpower  you? 
Who  is  he  whom  you  have  met,  and  whom,  even  now  while  I 
speak,  you  tremble  to  hear  me  recur  to?  Answer  me  one 
word — is  it  this  mysterious  stranger  whom  your  father  honors 
with  his  friendship  ? — Is  it  Barnard  ? " 

Alarm  and  fear  again  wholly  engrossed  the  expression  of 
Isora's  countenance. 

"Barnard  ! "  she  said,  "yes — yes — it  is  Barnard  ! " 

"  Who  is  he  ? "  I  cried  vehemently — "  who  or  what  is  he  ? — and 


54  DEVEREUX. 

of  what  nature  is  his  influence  upon  you  ?  Confide  in  me  " — and 
I  poured  forth  a  long  tide  of  inquiry  and  solicitation. 

By  the  time  I  had  ended,  Isora  seemed  to  have  recovered  her- 
self. With  her  softness,  was  mingled  something  of  spirit  and  of 
self-control,  which  was  rare  alike  in  her  country  and    her  sex. 

"Listen  to  me  !  "  said  she,  and  her  voice,  which  faltered  a  lit- 
tle at  first,  grew  calm  and  firm  as  she  proceeded.  "  You  profess 
to  love  me — I  am  not  worthy  your  love  ;  and  if,  Count  Devereux, 
I  do  not  reject  nor  disclaim  it — for  I  am  a  woman  and  a  weak 
and  fond  one — I  will  not  at  least  wrong  you  by  encouraging 
hopes  which  I  may  not  and  I  dare  not  fulfil,  I  cannot—"  here 
she  spoke  with  a  fearful  distinctness, — "  I  cannot,  I  can  never, 
be  yours  ;  and  when  you  ask  me  to  be  so,  you  know  not  what 
you  ask  nor  what  perils  you  incur. — Enough — I  am  grateful  to 
you.  The  poor  exiled  girl  is  grateful  for  your  esteem — and — and 
your  affection.  She  will  never  forget  them, — never  !  But  be  this 
our  last  meeting — our  very  last — God  bless  you,  Morton  !  "  and 
as  she  read  my  heart,  pierced  and  agonized  as  it  was,  in  my 
countenance,  Isora  bent  over  me,  for  I  knelt  beside  her,  and  I 
felt  her  tears  upon  my  cheek, — "God  bless  you — and  farewell," 

"You  insult,  you  wound  me,"  said  I  bitterly,  "by  this  cold 
and  taunting  kindness ;  tell  me,  tell  me  only,  who  it  is  that  you 
love  better  than  me." 

Isora  had  turned  to  leave  me,  for  I  was  too  proud  to  detain 
her;  but  when  I  said  this,  she  came  back,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  If  it  make  you  happy  to  know  my  unhappiness,"  she  said,  and 
the  tone  of  her  voice  made  me  look  full  in  her  face,  which  was 
one  deep  blush,  "  know  that  I  am  not  insensible — " 

I  heard  no  more — my  lips  pressed  themselves  involuntarily  to 
hers — a  long,  long  kiss, — burning — intense — concentrating  emo- 
tion, heart,  soul,  all  the  rays  of  life's  light  into  a  single  focus  ; — • 
and  she  tore  herself  from  me-r-and  I  was  alone. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A  Discovery,  and  a  Departure, 

I  HASTENED  home  after  my  eventful  interview  with  Isora,  and 
gave  myself  up  to  tumultuous  and  wild  conjecture.  Aubrey 
sought  me  the  next  morning — I  narrated  to  him  all  that  had  oc- 
curred—he said  little,  but  that  little  enraged  me,  for  it  was  con- 
:trary  to   the  dictates  of  my  own  wishes.     The  character  of 


DEVEREUX.  55 

Morose  in  the  "  Silent  Woman"  is  by  no  means  an  uncommon 
one.  Many  men — certainly  many  lovers — would  say  with  equal 
truth,  always  provided  they  had  equal  candor — "All  discourses 
but  my  own  afflict  me  ;  they  seem  harsh,  impertinent,  and  irk- 
some." Certainly  I  felt  that  amiable  sentiment  most  sincerely, 
with  regard  to  Aubrey.  I  left  him  abruptly — a  resolution  pos- 
sessed me — "  I  will  see,"  said  I,  "  this  Barnard.  I  will  lie  in  wait 
for  him  ;  I  will  demand  and  obtain,  though  it  be  by  force,  the 
secret  which  evidently  subsists  between  him  and  this  exiled 
family." 

Full  of  this  idea,  I  drew  my  cloak  round  me,  and  repaired  on 
foot  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Spaniard's  cottage.  There  was 
no  place  near  it  very  commodious  for  accommodation  both  of 
vigil  and  concealment.  However,  I  made  a  little  hill,  in  a  field 
opposite  the  house,  my  warder's  station,  and,  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  ground,  wrapt  in  my  cloak,  1  trusted  to  escape  notice. 
The  day  passed — no  visitor  appeared.  The  next  morning  I  went 
from  my  own  rooms,  through  the  subterranean  passage,  into  the 
Castle  Cave,  as  the  excavation  I  have  before  described  was 
generally  termed.  On  the  shore  I  saw  Gerald,  by  one  of  the 
small  fishing-boats  usually  kept  there.  I  passed  him  with  a  sneer 
at  his  amusements,  which  were  always  those  of  conflicts  against 
fish  or  fowl.  He  answered  me  in  tlie  same  strain,  as  he  threw 
his  nets  into  the  boat,  and  pushed  out  to  sea.  "  How  is  it,  that 
you  go  alone?"  said  I ;  "is  there  so  much  glory  in  the  capture 
of  mackerel  and  dogfish  that  you  will  allow  no  one  to  share  it  ?" 

"There  are  other  sports  besides  those  for  men,"  answered 
Gerald,  coloring  indignantly  ;  "my  taste  is  confined  to  amuse- 
ments in  which  he  is  but  a  fool  who  seeks  companionship ;  and 
if  you  could  read  character  better,  my  wise  brother,  you  would 
know  that  the  bold  rover  is  ever  less  idle  and  more  fortunate 
than  the  speculative  dreamer  !  " 

As  Gerald  said  this,  which  he  did  with  a  significant  emphasis, 
he  rowed  vigorously  across  the  water,  and  the  little  boat  was 
soon  half  way  to  the  opposite  islet.  My  eyes  followed  it  mus- 
ingly as  it  glided  over  the  waves,  and  my  thoughts  painfully  re- 
volved the  words  which  Gerald  had  uttered.  "What  can  he 
mean  ? "  said  I,  half  aloud  ;  "  yet  what  matters  it  ? — perhaps  some 
low  amour,  some  village  conquest,  inspires  him  with  that  becom- 
ing fulness  of  pride  and  vain  glory — joy  be  with  so  bold  a  rover  !  " 
and  I  strode  away,  along  the  beach,  towards  my  place  of  watch; 
once  only  I  turned  to  look  at  Gerald — he  had  then  just  touched 
the  islet,  which  was  celebrated  as  much  for  the  fishing  it  afforded 
as  the  smuggling  it  protected, 


56  DEVEREUX. 

I  arrived,  at  last,  at  the  hillock,  and  resumed  my  station. 
Time  passed  on,  till,  at  the  dusk  of  evening,  the  Spaniard  came 
out.  He  walked  slowly  towards  the  town  ;  I  followed  him  at  a 
distance.  Just  before  he  reached  the  town,  he  turned  off  by  a 
path  which  led  to  the  beach.  As  the  evening  was  unusually  fresh 
and  chill,  I  felt  convinced  that  some  cause,  not  wholly  trivial, 
drew  the  Spaniard  forth  to  brave  it.  My  pride  a  little  revolted 
at  the  idea  of  following  him  ;  but  I  persuaded  myself  that  Isora's 
happiness,  and  perhaps  her  father's  safety,  depended  on  my  ob- 
taining some  knowledge  of  the  character  and  designs  of  this 
Barnard,  who  appeared  to  possess  so  dangerous  an  influence 
over  both  daughter  and  sire — nor  did  I  doubt  but  that  the  old 
man  was  now  gone  forth  to  meet  him.  The  times  were  those  of 
mystery  and  intrigue — the  emissaries  of  the  House  of  Stuart 
were  restlessly  at  work,  among  all  classes — many  of  them,  ob- 
scure and  mean  individuals,  made  their  way,  the  more  dan- 
gerously from  their  apparent  insignificance.  My  uncle,  a 
moderate  Tory,  was  opposed,  though  quietly,  and  without  vehe- 
mence, to  the  claims  of  the  banished  House.  Like  Sedley,  who 
became  so  staunch  a  revolutionist,  he  had  seen  the  Court  of 
Charles  II.,  and  the  character  of  that  King's  brother,  too  closely 
to  feel  much  respect  for  either  ;  but  he  thought  it  indecorous  to 
express  opposition  loudly,  against  a  party  among  whom  were 
many  of  his  early  friends  ;  and  the  good  old  knight  was  too  much 
attached  to  private  ties  to  be  very  much  alive  to  public  feeling. 
However,  at  his  well-filled  board,  conversation,  generally,  though 
displeasingly  to  himself,  turned  upon  politics,  and  I  had  there 
often  listened,  of  late,  to  dark  hints  of  the  danger  to  which 
we  were  exposed,  and  of  the  restless  machinations  of  the  Jacob- 
ites. I  did  not,  therefore,  scruple  to  suspect  this  Barnard  of 
some  plot  against  the  existing  state  ;  and  I  did  it  the  more  from 
observing  that  the  Spaniard  often  spoke  bitterly  of  the  English 
Court,  which  had  rejected  some  claims  he  had  imagined  him- 
self entitled  to  make  upon  it  ;  and  that  he  was  naturally  of  a  tem- 
per vehemently  opposed  to  quiet,  and  alive  to  enterprise.  With 
this  impression,  1  deemed  it  fair  to  seize  any  opportunity  of  see- 
ing, at  least,  even  if  I  could  not  question,  the  man  whom  the 
Spaniard  himself  confessed  to  have  state  reasons  for  conceal- 
ment ;  and  my  anxiety  to  behold  one  whose  very  name  could 
agitate  Isora,  and  whose  presence  could  occasion  the  state  in 
which  I  had  found  her,  sharpened  this  desire  into  the  keenness 
of  a  passion. 

While  Alvarez  descended  to  the  beach,  I  kept  the  upper 
path,  which  wound  along  the  clift     There  was  a  spot  where  the 


DEVEREUX.  57 

rocks  were  rude  and  broken  into  crags,  and  afforded  me  a  place 
where,  unseen,  I  could  behold  what  passed  below.  The  first 
thing  I  beheld  was  a  boat,  approaching  rapidly  towards  the 
shore  ;  one  man  was  seated  in  it ;  he  reached  the  shore,  and  I 
recognized  Gerald.  That  was  a  dreadful  moment.  Alvarez 
now  slowly  joined  him  ;  they  remained  together  for  nearly  an 
hour.  I  saw  Gerald  give  the  Spaniard  a  letter,  which  appeared 
to  make  the  chief  subject  of  their  conversation.  At  length  they 
parted,  with  the  signs  rather  of  respect  than  familiarity.  Don 
Diego  returned  homeward,  and  Gerald  re-entered  the  boat.  I 
watched  its  progress  over  the  waves  with  feelings  of  a  dark 
and  almost  unutterable  nature.  "  My  enemy  !  my  rival !  ruiner 
»f  my  hopes! — my  brother — my  twin  brother!" — I  muttered 
bitterly  between  my  ground  teeth. 

The  boat  did  not  make  to  the  open  sea — it  skulked  along 
the  shore,  till  distance  and  shadow  scarcely  allowed  me  to  trace 
the  outline  of  Gerald's  figure.  It  then  touched  the  beach,  and 
I  could  just  descry  the  dim  shape  of  another  man  enter  ;  and 
Gerald,  instead  of  returning  homewards,  pushed  out  towards 
the  islet.  I  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  the  open  air. 
Wearied  and  exhausted,  by  the  furious  indulgence  of  my  pas- 
sions, I  gained  my  room,  at  length.  There,  however,  as  else- 
where, thought  succeeded  to  thought,  and  scheme  to  scheme. 
Should  I  speak  to  Gerald  ?  Should  I  confide  in  Alvarez  ? 
Should  I  renew  my  suit  to  Isora  ?  If  the  first,  what  could  I 
hope  to  learn  from  mine  enemy  ?  If  the  second,  what  could  I 
gain  from  the  father,  while  the  daughter  remained  averse  to 
me  ?  If  the  third — there  my  heart  pointed,  and  the  third  scheme 
I  resolved  to  adopt. 

But  was  I  sure  that  Gerald  was  this  Barnard  ?  Might  there 
not  be  some  hope  that  he  was  not  ?  No,  I  could  perceive  none; 
Alvarez  had  never  spoken  to  me  of  acquaintance  with  any  other 
Englishman  than  Barnard  ;  I  had  no  reason  to  believe  that  he 
ever  held  converse  with  any  other.  Would  it  not  have  been 
natural  too,  unless  some  powerful  cause,  such,  as  love  to  Isora, 
induced  silence — would  it  not  have  been  natural  that  Gerald 
should  have  mentioned  his  acquaintance  with  the  Spaniard  ? — 
Unless  some  dark  scheme,  such  as  that  which  Barnard  appeared 
to  have  in  common  with  Don  Diego,  commanded  obscurity, 
would  it  have  been  likely  that  Gerald  should  have  met  Alvarez 
alone — at  night — on  an  unfrequented  spot?  What  that  scheme 
was,  I  guessed  not — I  cared  not.  AUmy  interest  in  the  identity 
of  Barnard  with  Gerald  Devereux  was  that  derived  from  the 
power  he  seemed  to  possess  over  Jspra,     Here,  too,  at  oncei 


58  DEVEREUX. 

was  explained  the  pretended  Barnard's  desire  of  concealment, 

and  the  vigilance  with  which  it  had  been  effected.  It  was  so 
certain  that  Gerald,  if  my  rival,  would  seek  to  avoid  me — it 
was  so  easy  for  him,  who  could  watch  all  my  motions,  to  secure 
the  power  of  doing  so.  Then  I  remembered  Gerald's  character 
through  the  country,  as  a  gallant  and  a  general  lover — and  I 
closed  my  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  vision  when  I  recalled  the 
beauty  of  his  form,  contrasting  with  the  comparative  plainness 
of  my  own. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  I  repeated — and  an  insensibility,  rather 
than  sleep,  crept  over  me.  Dreadful  and  fierce  dreams  peopled 
my  slumbers ;  and,  when  I  started  from  them  at  a  late  hour 
the  next  day,  I  was  unable  to  rise  from  my  bed — my  agitation 
and  my  wanderings  had  terminated  in  a  burning  fever.  In 
four  days,  however,  I  recovered  sufficiently  to  mount  my  horse — 
I  rode  to  the  Spaniard's  house,  I  found  there  only  the  woman 
who  had  been  Don  Diego's  solitary  domestic.  The  morning 
before,  Alvarez  and  his  daughter  had  departed,  none  knew  for 
certain  whither ;  but  it  was  supposed  their  destination  was 
London.  The  woman  gave  me  a  note — it  was  from  Isora — it 
contained  only  these  lines  : 

"  Forget  me — we  are  now  parted  for  ever.  As  you  value 
my  peace  of  mind — of  happiness  I  do  not  speak — seek  not  to 
discover  our  next  retreat.  I  implore  you  to  think  no  more  of 
what  has  been ;  you  are  young,  very  young.  Life  has  a 
thousand  paths  for  you  ;  any  one  of  them  will  lead  you  from 
the  remembrance  of  me.     Farewell,  again  and  again  ! 

"Isora  D'Alvarez." 

With  this  note  was  another,  in  French,  from  Don  Diego ;  it 
was  colder  and  more  formal  than  I  could  have  expected — it 
thanked  me  for  my  attentions  towards  him — it  regretted  that 
he  could  not  take  leave  of  me  in  person,  and  it  enclosed 
the  sum  by  the  loan  of  which  our  acquaintance  had  commenced. 

"  It  is  well !  "  said  I,  calmly,  to  myself,  "  it  is  well ;  I  will 
forget  her ;"  and  I  rode  instantly  home.  "  But,"  I  resumed  in 
my  soliloquy,  "  I  will  yet  strive  to  obtain  confirmation  to  what 
perhaps  needs  it  not.  I  will  yet  strive  to  see  if  Gerald  can  deny 
the  depth  of  his  injuries  towards  me — there  will  be  at  least  some 
comfort  in  witnessing  either  his  defiance  or  his  confusion." 

Agreeably  to  this  thought,  I  hastened  to  seek  Gerald.  I 
found  him  in  his  apartment — I  shut  the  door,  and  seating  my- 
self, with  a  smile,  thus  addressed  him  : 

*'  Dear  Gerald,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 


DEVEREUX.  5P 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"How  long  have  you  known  a  certain  Mr.  Barnard?" 
Gerald  changed  color — his  voice  faltered  as  he  repeated  the 
name  "Barnard  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  vvith  affected  composure,  "Barnard,  a  great 
friend  of  Don  Diego  D'Alvarez." 

"  I  perceive,"  said  Gerald,  collecting  himself,  "  that  you  are 
in  some  measure  acquainted  with  my  secret — how  far  it  is  known 
to  you  I  cannot  guess  ;  but  I  tell  you,  very  fairly,  that  from  me 
you  will  not  increase  the  sum  of  your  knowledge." 

When  one  is  in  a  good  sound  rage,  it  is  astonishing  how 
calm  one  can  be !  I  was  certainly  somewhat  amazed  by 
Gerald's  hardihood  and  assurance,  but  I  continued, with  a  smile — 

"And  Donna  Isora,  how  long,  if  not  very  intrusive  on  your 
confidence,  have  you  known  her?" 

"  I  tell  you,"  answered  Gerald  doggedly,  "  that  I  will  answer 
no  questions." 

"  You  remember  the  old  story,"  returned  I,  "  of  the  two 
brothers,  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  whose  very  ashes  refused  to 
mingle — faith,  Gerald,  our  love  seems  much  of  the  same  sort. 
I  know  not  if  our  ashes  will  exhibit  so  laudable  an  antipathy  ; 
but  I  think  our  hearts  and  hands  will  do  so  while  a  spark  of  life 
animates  them  ;  yes,  though  our  blood,"  (I  added,  in  a  voice 
quivering  with  furious  emotion,)  "prevents  our  contest  by  the 
sword,  it  prevents  not  the  hatred  and  the  curses  of  the  heart." 

Gerald  turned  pale.  "  I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  faltered 
out — "  I  know  you  abhor  me ;  but  why,  why  this  excess  of 
malice  ?" 

I  cast  on  him  a  look  of  bitter  scorn,  and  turned  from  the 
room. 

It  is  not  pleasing  to  place  before  the  reader  these  dark  pas- 
sages of  /raternal  hatred  ;  but  in  the  record  of  all  passions  there 
is  a  moral ;  and  it  is  wise  to  see  to  how  vast  a  sum  the  units  of 
childish  animosity  swell,  when  they  are  once  brought  into  a 
heap,  by  some  violent  event,  and  told  over  by  the  nice  accuracy 
of  Revenge. 

But  I  long  to  pass  from  these  scenes,  and  my  history  is  about 
to  glide  along  others  of  more  glittering  and  smiling  aspect. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  write  a  tale,  not  only  of  love,  but  of  a  life  ; 
and  that  yrhich  I  cannot  avoid  I  can  at  least  condense. 


•6d  DEVEREUX. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  very  short  Chapter — containing  a  Valet. 

My  uncle  for  several  weeks  had  flattered  himself  that  I  had 
quite  forgotten  or  foregone  the  desire  of  leaving  Devereux 
Court  for  London.  Good,  easy  man  !  he  was  not  a  little  dis- 
tressed when  I  renewed  the  subject  with  redoubled  firmness, 
and  demanded  an  early  period  for  that  event.  He  managed, 
however,  still  to  protract  the  evil  day.  At  one  time  it  was  im- 
possible to  part  with  me,  because  the  house  was  so  full ;  at  an- 
other time  it  was  cruel  to  leave  him,  when  the  house  was  so 
empty.  Meanwhile,  a  new  change  came  over  me.  As  the  first 
shock  of  Isora's  departure  passed  away,  I  began  to  suspect  the 
purity  of  her  feelings  towards  me.  Might  not  Gerald,  the  beau- 
tiful, the  stately,  the  glittering  Gerald,  have  been  a  successful 
wooer  under  that  disguised  name  of  Barnard,  and  hence  Isora's 
confusion  when  that  name  was  mentioned,  and  hence  the  power 
which  its  possessor  exercised  over  her? 

This  idea,  once  admitted,  soon  gained  ground.  It  is  true  that 
Isora  had  testified  something  of  favorable  feelings  towards  me  ; 
but  this  might  spring  from  coquetry  or  compassion.  My  love 
had  been  a  boy's  love,  founded  upon  beauty  and  colored  by 
romance.  I  had  not  investigated  the  character  of  the  object ; 
and  I  had  judged  of  the  mind  solely  by  the  face.  I  might 
easily  have  been  deceived — I  persuaded  myself  that  I  was ! 
Perhaps  Gerald  had  provided  their  present  retreat  for  sire  and 
daughter — perhaps  they  at  this  moment  laughed  over  my  rivalry 
and  my  folly.  Methought  Gerald's  lip  wore  a  contemptuous 
curve  when  we  met.  "  It  shall  have  no  cause,"  I  said,  stung 
to  the  soul  ;  "I  will  indeed  forget  this  woman,  and  yet,  though 
in  other  ways,  eclipse  this  rival.  Pleasure — ambition — the 
brilliancy  of  a  Court — the  resources  of  wealth  invite  me  to  a 
thousand  joys.  I  will  not  be  deaf  to  the  call.  Meanwhile  I 
will  not  betray  to  Gerald — to  any  one — the  scar  of  the  wound 
I  have  received  ;  and  I  will  mortify  Gerald,  by  showing  him 
that,  handsome  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  forgotten  in  my  presence  !  " 

Agreeably  to  this  exquisite  resolution,  I  paid  incessant  court 
to  the  numerous  dames  by  whom  my  uncle's  mansion  was 
thronged  ;  and  I  resolved  to  prepare,  among  them,  the  reputa- 
tion for  gallantry  and  for  wit  which  I  proposed  to  establish  in 
town. 

"  You  are  greatly  altered  since  your  love  !  "  said  Aubrey,  one 


l>EVEREtJX.  6t 

day  to  ttie,  "  but  not  by  your  love.  Own  that  I  did  right  in  dis- 
suading you  from  its  indulgence  !  " 

"Tell  me  !  "  said  I,  sinking  my  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  do  you 
think  Gerald  was  ray  rival?  "  and  I  recounted  the  causes  of  my 
suspicion. 

Aubrey's  countenance  testified  astonishment  as  he  listened — 
"  It  is  strange — very  strange,"  said  he;  "and  the  evidence  of 
the  boat  is  almost  conclusive;  still  I  do  not  think  it  quite  suffic- 
ient to  leave  no  loophole  of  doubt.  But  what  matters  it  ? — 
you  have  conquered  your  love  now." 

"  Ay,"  I  said,  with  a  laugh,  *'  I  have  conquered  it,  and  I  am 
now  about  to  find  some  other  empress  of  the  heart.  What  think 
you  of  the  Lady  Hasselton  ? — a  fair  dame  and  a  sprightly,  I 
want  nothing  but  her  love  to  be  the  most  enviable  of  men,  and 
a  French  valet-de-chambre  to  be  the  most  irresistible." 

"  The  former  is  easier  to  obtain  than  the  latter,  I  fear,"  re- 
turned Aubrey;  "all  places  produce  light  dames,  but  the  war 
makes  a  scarcity  of  French  valets." 

"  True,"  said  I,  "  but  I  never  thought  of  instituting  a  com- 
parison between  their  relative  value.  The  Lady  Hasselton,  no 
disparagement  to  her  merits,  is  but  one  woman — but  a  French 
valet  who  knows  his  metier  arms  one  for  conquest  over  a  thous- 
and " — and  I  turned  to  the  saloon. 

Fate,  which  had  destined  to  me  the  valuable  affections  of  the 
Lady  Hasselton,  granted  me  also,  at  a  yet  earlier  period,  the 
greater  boon  of  a  French  valet.  About  two  or  three  weeks  after 
this  sapient  communication  with  Aubrey,  the  most  charming 
person  in  the  world  presented  himself  a  candidate/^///- /?  j«- 
prime  bonheur  de  soigner  Monsieur  le  Comte.  Intelligence 
beamed  in  his  eye  ;  a  modest  assurance  reigned  upon  his  brow  ; 
respect  made  his  step  vigilant  as  a  zephyr's  ;  and  his  ruffles  were 
the  envy  of  the  world  ! 

I  took  him  at  a  glance  ;  and  I  presented  to  the  admiring  in- 
mates of  the  house  a  greater  coxcomb  than  the  Count  Devereux 
in  the  ethereal  person  of  Jean  Desmarais. 

CHAPTER  XL 

The  Hero  acquits  himself  honorably  as  a  Coxcomb — a  Fine  Lady  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  and  a  fashionable  Dialogue — the  Substance  of 
fashionable  Dialogiie  being  in  all  Centuries  the  same. 

"  I  AM  thinking,  Morton,"  said  my  uncle,  "that  if  you  are  to 
go  to  town,  you  should  go  in  a  style  suitable  to  your  rank. 
What  say  you  to  flying  along  the  road  in  my  green  and  gold 


62  DEVEREUX. 

chariot  ?  'Sdeath,  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  it.  Nay — no 
thanks — and  you  may  have  four  of  my  black  Flanders  mares 
to  draw  you." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Sir  William,"  cried  Lady  Hasselton,  who,  it 
may  be  remembered,  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  King  Charles's 
beauties,  and  who  alone  shared  the  breakfast  room  with  my 
uncle  and  myself — "now,  my  dear  Sir  William,  I  think  it  would  \ 
be  a  better  plan  to  suffer  the  Count  to  accompany  us  to  town. 
We  go  next  week.  He  shall  have  a  seat  in  our  coach — help 
Lovell  to  pay  our  post-horses — protect  us  at  inns — scold  at  the 
drawers  in  the  pretty  oaths  of  the  fashion,  which  are  so  inno- 
cent that  I  will  teach  them  to  his  Countship  myself,  and  unless 
I  am  much  more  frightful  than  my  honored  mother,  whose 
beauties  you  so  gallantly  laud,  I  think  you  will  own.  Sir  Wil- 
liam, that  this  is  better  for  your  nephew  than  doing  solitary 
penance  in  your  chariot  of  green  and  gold,  with  a  handkerchief 
tied  over  his  head  to  keep  away  cold,  and  with  no  more  fanci- 
ful occupation  than  composing  sonnets  to  the  four  Flanders 
mares." 

"  'Sdeath,  madam,  you  inherit  your  mother's  wit  as  well  as 
beauty,"  cried  my  uncle,  with  an  impassioned  air. 
"    "  And  his  Countship,"  said  I,  "  will  accept  your  invitation 
without  asking  his  uncle's  leave." 

**  Come,  that  is  bold  for  a  gentleman  of — let  me  see,  thirteen — 
are  you  not?" 

"Really,"  answered  I,  "one  learns  to  forget  time  so  terribly 
in  the  presence  of  Lady  Hasselton,  that  I  do  not  remember 
even  how  long  it  has  existed  for  me." 

*'  Bravo,"  cried  the  knight,  with  a  moistening  eye  :  "  you  see, 
madam,  the  boy  has  not  lived  with  his  old  uncle  for  nothing." 

"  I  am  lost  in  astonishment,"  said  the  lady,  glancing  toward 
the  glass  ;  "  why,  you  will  eclipse  all  our  beaux  at  your  first 
appearance — but — but — Sir  William — how  green  those  glasses 
have  become!  bless  me,  there  is  something  so" contagious  in 
the  effects  of  the  country,  that  the  very  mirrors  grow  verdant. 
But — Count — Count — where  are  you,  Count  ?  (I  was  exactly 
opposite  to  the  fair  speaker.)  Oh,  there  you  are — pray — do  you 
carry  a  little  pocket-glass  of  the  true  quality  about  you  ?  But, 
of  course  you  do — lend  it  me." 

"  I  have  not  the  glass  you  want,  but  i  carry  with  me  a  mirror 
that  reflects  your  features  much  more  faithfully." 

"  How  !  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  you  !  " 

"The  mirror  is  here  ! "   said  I,  laying  my  hand  to  my  heart 

"  'Gad,  I  must  kiss  the  boy  !  "  cried  my  uncle,  starting  up. 


DEVEREUX.  165 

"I  have  sworn,"  said  I,  fixing  my  eyes  upon  the  lady — "I 
have  sworn  never  to  be  kissed  even  by  women.  You  must 
pardon  me,  uncle." 

"I  declare,"  cried  the  Lady  Hasselton,  flirting  her  fan,  which 
was  somewhat  smaller  than  the  screen  that  one  puts  into  a 
great  hall,  in  order  to  take  off  the  discomfort  of  too  large  a 
room — "  I  declare.  Count,  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  originality 
about  you.  But  tell  me,  Sir  William,  where  did  your  nephew 
acquire,  at  so  early  an  age — (eleven  you  say  he  is)— such  a 
fund  of  agreeable  assurance  ? "  ^  I 

"  Nay,  madam,  let  the  boy  answer  for  himself." 
.  ^^ Imprimis ,  then,"  said  I,  playing  with  the  ribbon  of  my 
cane—"  imprimis,  early  study  of  the  best  authors — Congreve 
and  Farquhar,  Etherege  and  Rochester.  Secondly,  the  con- 
stant intercourse  of  company  which  gives  one  the  spleen  so 
over-poweringly  that  despair  inspires  one  with  boldness — to 
get  rid  of  them.  Thirdly,  the  personal  example  of  Sir  William 
Devereux  ;  and,  fourthly,  the  inspiration  of  hope." 

"Hope,  sir  !"  said  the  Lady  Hasselton,  covering  her  face 
with  her  fan,  so  as  only  to  leave  me  a  glimpse  of  the  farthest 
patch  upon  her  left  cheek — "  hope,  sir  ?" 

"Yes — the  hope  of  being  pleasing  to  you.  Suffer  me  to  add 
that  the  hope  has  now  become  certainty." 

"  Upon  my  word.  Count — " 

"  Nay,  you  cannot  deny  it — if  one  can  once  succeed  in  im- 
pudence, one  is  irresistible." 

"  Sir  William,"  cried  Lady  Hasselton,  "you  may  give  the 
Count  your  chariot  of  green  and  gold,  and  your  four  Flanders 
mares,  and  send  his  mother's  maid  with  him.  He  shall  not  go 
with  me." 

"  Cruel  !  and  why  ?  "  said  I. 

"  You  are  too  " — the  lady  paused,  and  looked  at  me  over  her 
fan.  She  was  really  very  handsome — "  you  are  too  old.  Count. 
You  must  be  more  than  nine." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  I,  "  I  am  nine — a  very  mystical  number 
nine  is  too,  and  represents  the  muses,  who,  you  know,  were 
always  attendant  upon  Venus — or  you,  which  is  the  same  thing  ; 
so  you  can  no  more  dispense  with  my  company  than  you  can 
with  that  of  the  Graces." 

"  Good- morning.  Sir  William  !  "  cried  the  Lady  Hasselton, 
rising. 

I  offered  to  hand  her  to  the  door — with  great  difficulty,  tor 
her  hoop  was  of  the  very  newest  enormity  of  circumference,  I 
effected  this  object.     "  Well,  Count ! "  said  she,  "  I  am  glad  to 


64  DEVEREUX. 

see  you  have  brought  so  much  learning  from  school ;  make  the 
best  use  of  it,  while  it  lasts,  for  your  memory  will  not  furnish 
you  with  a  single  simile  out  of  the  mythology  by  the  end  of 
next  winter." 

"That  would  be  a  pity  !  "  said  I,  "  for  I  intend  having  as 
many  goddesses  as  the  Heathens  had,  and  I  should  like  to 
worship  them  in  a  classical  fashion." 

'•  Oh  !  the  young  reprobate  !  "  said  the  beauty,  tapping  me 
with  her  fan,  "And  pray  what  other  deities  besides  Venus  do 
I  resemble  ?  " 

"  All ! "  said  I— "at  least  all  the  celestial  ones  1 " 

Though  half  way  through  the  door,  the  beauty  extricated 
her  hoop,  and  drew  back.  "  Bless  me,  the  gods  as  well  as  the 
goddesses?" 

"Certainly." 

"  You  jest — tell  me  how." 

"  Nothing  can  be  easier  ;  you  resemble  Mercury,  because  of 
your  thefts." 

"  Thefts  !  " 

"Ay  ;  stolen  hearts,  and"  (added  I,  in  a  whisper)  "glances- 
Jupiter,  partly  because  of  your  lightning,  which  you  lock  up  in 
the  said  glances — principally  because  all  things  are  subservient 
to  you — Neptune,  because  you  are  as  changeable  as  the  seas — 
Vulcan,  because  you  live  among  the  flames  you  excite — and 
Mars,  because — " 

"  You  are  so  destructive,"  cried  my  uncle. 

"Exactly  so;  and  because,"  added  I — as  I  shut  the  door 
upon  the  beauty — "because,  thanks  to  your  hoop,  you  cover 
nine  acres  of  ground." 

"  Od'sfish,  Morton,"  said  my  uncle,  "  you  surprise  me  at 
times — one  while  you  are  so  reserved,  at  another  so  assured  ; 
to-day  so  brisk,  to-morrow  so  gloomy.  Why  now.  Lady  Has- 
selton  (she  is  very  comely,  eh  !  faith,  but  not  comparable  to 
her  mother)  told  me,  a  week  ago,  that  she  gave  you  up  in  de- 
spair, that  you  were  dull,  past  hoping  for  ;  and  now,  'Gad,  you 
had  a  life  in  you  that  Sid  himself  could  not  have  surpassed. 
How  comes  it  sir,  eh  ? " 

"  Why,  uncle,  you  have  explained  the  reason  ;  it  was  exactly 
because  she  said  I  was  dull  that  I  was  resolved  to  convict  her 
in  an  untruth." 

"Well,  now,  there  is  some  sense  in  that,  boy  ;  always  con- 
tradict ill  report,  by  personal  merit.  But  what  think  you  of  her 
ladyship  ?  'Gad,  you  know  what  old  Bellair  said  of  Emilia. 
'Make  much  of  her — she's  one  of   the  best  of  your  acquaint- 


DEVEREUX.  '^5 

ance.  I  like  her  countenance  and  behavior.  Well,  she  has 
a  modesty  not  i'  this  age,  a-dad  she  has.'  Applicable  enough — ■ 
eh,  boy  !  " 

"  '  I  know  her  value,  sir,  and  esteem  her  accordingly,'  '*  an- 
swered I,  out  of  the  same  play,  which,  by  dint  of  long  study,  I 
had  got  by  heart.  "But,  to  confess  the  truth,"  added  I,  "  I 
think  you  might  have  left  out  the  passage  about  her  modesty." 

"  There,  now — you  young  chaps  are  so  censorious — why 
'sdeath,  sir,  you  don't  think  the  worse  of  her  virtue,  because  of 
her  wit  ?" 

"  Humph !  " 

"  Ah,  boy — when  you  are  my  age,  you'll  know  that  your 
demure  cats  are  not  the  best  ;  and  that  reminds  me  of  a  little 
story — shall  I  tell  it  you,  child  ? " 

"  If  it  so  please  you,  sir," 

"  Zauns — where's  my  snuff-box  ? — oh,  here  it  is.  Well,  sir, 
you  shall  have  the  whole  thing,  from  beginning  to  end.  Sed- 
ley  and  1  were  one  day  conversing  together  about  women.  Sid 
was  a  very  deep  fellow  in  that  game — no  passion  you  know — no 
love  on  his  own  side — nothing  of  the  sort — all  done  by  rule  and 
compass — knew  women  as  well  as  dice,  and  calculated  the 
exact  moment  when  his  snares  would  catch  them,  according  to 
the  principles  of  geometry.  D — d  clever  fellow,  faith — but  a 
confounded  rascal  : — but  let  it  go  no  farther — mum's  the 
word  ! — must  not  slander  the  dead — and  'tis  only  my  suspicion, 
you  know,  after  all.  Poor  fellow — I  don't  think  he  was  such  a 
rascal ;  he  gave  a  beggar  an  angel  once, — well,  boy,  have  a 
pinch  ? — Well,  so  I  said  to  Sir  Charles,  M  think  you  will  lose 
the  widow,  after  all — 'Gad  I  do.'  '  Upon  what  principle  of 
science.  Sir  William  ? '  said  he.  '  Why,  faith,  man,  she  is  so 
modest,  you  see,  and  has  such  a  pretty  way  of  blushing.' 
*  Harkye,  friend  Devereux,'  said  Sir  Charles,  smoothing  his 
collar,  and  mincing  his  words  musically,  as  he  was  wont  to  do — 
'  harkye,  friend  Devereux,  I  will  give  you  the  whole  experience 
of  my  life  in  one  maxim — I  can  answer  for  its  being  new,  and  I 
think  it  is  profound — and  that  maxim  is — '  No  faith,  Morton — 
no,  I  can't  tell  thee — it  is  villainous,  and  then  it's  so  desperately 
against  all  the  sex." 

"  My  dear  uncle,  don't  tantalize  me  so — pray  tell  it  me — it 
shall  be  a  secret." 

'*  No,  boy,  no — it  will  corrupt  thee — besides,  it  will  do  poor 
Sid's  memory  no  good.  But  'sdeath,  it  was  a  most  wonderfully 
shrewd  saying — i'  faith,  it  was.  But  zounds — Morton — I  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  I  had  a  letter  from  the  Abb6  to-day." 


66  DEVEREUX, 

"  Ha  !  and  when  does  he  return  ?  " 
f"  To-morrow,  God  willing  !  "  said  the  knight  with  a  sigh. 

"  So  soon,  or  rather  after  so  long  an  absence  !  Well,  I  are 
glad  of  it.     I  wish  much  to  see  him  before  I  leave  you." 

"  Indeed  !  "  quoth  my  uncle — "  you  have  an  advantage  over 
me,  then  ! — But,  od'sfish,  Morton,  how  is  it  that  you  grew  so 
friendly  with  the  priest  before  his  departure?  He  used  to 
speak  very  suspiciously  of  thee  formerly  ;  and,  when  I  last  saw 
him,  he  lauded  thee  to  the  skies." 

"  Why,  the  clergy  of  his  faith  have  a  habit  of  defending  the 
strong,  and  crushing  the  weak,  I  believe — that's  all.  He  once 
thought  I  was  dull  enough  to  damn  my  fortune,  and  then  he 
had  some  strange  doubts  for  my  soul — now  he  thinks  me  wise 
enough  to  become  prosperous,  and  it  is  astonishing  what  a  re- 
spect he  has  conceived  for  my  principles." 

"Ha!  ha  !  ha  ! — you  have  a  spice  of  your  uncle's  humor  in 
you — and,  'Gad,  you  have  no  small  knowledge  of  the  world, 
considering  you  have  seen  so  little  of  it," 

A  hit  at  the  Popish  clergy  was,  in  my  good  uncle's  eyes,  the 
exact  acme  of  wit  and  wisdom.  We  are  always  clever  with 
those  who  imagine  we  think  as  they  do.  To  be  shallow  you 
must  differ  with  people — to  be  profound  you  must  agree 
with  them.  "  Why,  sir,"  answered  the  sage  nephew,  "  you  for- 
get that  I  have  seen  more  of  the  world  than  many  of  twice  my  age. 
Your  house  has  been  full  of  company  ever  since  I  have  been  in 
it,  and  you  set  me  to  making  observations  on  what  I  saw  before 
I  was  thirteen.  And  then,  too,  if  one  is  reading  books  about 
real  life,  at  the  very  time  one  is  mixing  in  it,  it  is  astonishing 
how  naturally  one  remarks,  and  how  well  one  remembers." 

"  Especially  if  one  has  a  genius  for  it, — eh,  boy  !  And  then, 
too,  you  have  read  my  play — turned  Horace's  Satires  into  a 
lampoon  upon  the  boys  at  school — been  regularly  to  assizes 
during  the  vacation- — attended  the  county-balls,  and  been  a 
most  premature  male  coquette  with  the  ladies.  Od'sfish,  boy  ! — 
it  is  quite  curious  to  see  how  the  young  sparks  of  the  present 
day  get  on  with  their  love-making." 

"  Especially  if  one  has  a  genius  for  it — eh,  sir  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Besides,  too,"  said  my  uncle  ironically,  "  you  have  had  the 
Abba's  instructions." 

**  Ay,  and  if  the  priests  would  communicate  to  their  pupils 
their  experience  in  frailty,  as  well  as  in  virtue,  how  wise  they 
would  make  us  !  "  i 

"  Od'sfish  !  Morton,  you  are  quite  oracular.  How  got  you 
that  fancy  of  priests  ? — by  observation  in  life  already  ? " 


DEVEREUX.  '^7 

"  No,  uncle — by  observation  in  plays,  which  you  tell  me  are 
the  mirrors  of  life — you  remember  what  Lee  says — 
' '  'Tis  thought 
That  earth  is  more  obliged  to  priests  for  bodies 
Than  Heaven  for  souls. '  " 

And  my  uncle  laughed,  and  called  me  a  smart  fellow. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

The  Abbe's  return — a  Sword,  and  a  Soliloquy, 

The  next  evening  when  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  room,  the 
Abbe  Montreuil  suddenly  entered.  "  Ah,  is  it  you  ?  welcome  ! " 
— cried  I.  The  priest  held  out  his  arms,  and  embraced  me  in 
the  most  paternal  manner. 

"It  IS  your  friend,"  said  he,  "returned  at  last  to  bless  and 
congratulate  you.  Behold  my  success  in  your  service,"  and 
the  Abbe  produced  a  long  leather  case,  richly  inlaid  with  gold. 

"  Faitli,  Abb^,"  said  I,  "  am  I  to  understand  that  this  is  a 
present  for  your  eldest  pupil  ?" 

"  You  are,"  said  Montreuil,  opening  the  case,  and  producing 
a  sword  ;  the  light  fell  upon  the  hilt,  and  I  drew  back,  dazzled 
with  its  lustre  ;  it  was  covered  with  stones,  apparently  of  the 
most  costly  value.  Attached  to  the  hilt  was  a  label  of  purple 
velvet,  on  which,  in  letters  of  gold,  was  inscribed,  "  To  the  son 
of  Marshal  Devereux,  the  soldier  of  France,  and  the  friend  of 
Louis  XIV." 

Before  I  recovered  my  surprise  at  this  sight,  the  Abb^  said — 
"It  was  from  the  King's  own  hand  that  I  received  this  sword, 
and  I  have  authority  to  inform  you,  that  if  ever  you  wield  it  in 
the  service  of  France  it  will  be  accompanied  by  a  post  worthy 
of  your  name." 

"  The  service  of  France  !  "  I  repeated  ;  "  why  at  present, 
that  is  the  service  of  an  enemy." 

"  An  enemy  only  to  a  part  of  England  !  "  said  the  Abb6 
emphatically ;  "  perhaps  I  have  overtures  to  you  from  other 
monarchs,  and  the  friendship  of  the  court  of  France  may 
be  synonymous  with  the  friendship  of  the  true  sovereign  of 
England." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  purport  of  this  speech,  and  even 
in  the  midst  of  my  gratified  vanity,  I  drew  back  alarmed.  The 
Abbe  noted  the  changed  expression  of  my  countenance,  and 
artfully  turned  the  subject  to  comments  on  the  sword,  on  which 
I  still  gazed   with  a  lover's  ardor.     Thence  he  veered  to  a 


68  DEVEREUX. 

description  of  the  grace  and  greatness  of  the  royal  donor — he 
dwelt  at  length  upon  the  flattering  terms  in  which  Louis  had 
spoken  of  my  father,  and  had  inquired  concerning  myself  ;  he 
enumerated  all  the  hopes  that  the  illustrious  house,  into  which 
my  father  had  first  married,  expressed  for  a  speedy  introduc- 
tion to  his  son  ;  he  lingered  with  an  eloquence  moi'e  savoring 
of  the  court  than  of  the  cloister,  on  the  dazzling  circle  which 
surrounded  the  French  throne ;  and  when  my  vanity,  my 
curiosity,  my  love  of  pleasure,  my  ambition,  all  that  are  most 
susceptible,  in  young,  minds,  were  fully  aroused,  he  suddenly 
ceased,  and  wished  me  a  good-night. 

"  Stay,"  said  I ;  and  looking  at  him  more  attentively  than  I 
had  hitherto  done,  I  perceived  a  change  in  his  external  appear- 
ance, which  somewhat  startled  and  surprised  me.  Montreuil 
had  always  hitherto  been  remarkably  plain  in  his  dress ;  but 
he  was  now  richly  attired,  and  by  his  side  hung  a  rapier,  which 
had  never  adorned  it  before.  Something  in  his  aspect  seemed 
to  suit  the  alteration  in  his  garb  :  and  whether  it  was  that  long 
absence  had  effaced  enough  of  the  familiarity  of  his  features,  to 
allow  me  to  be  more  alive  than  formerly  to  the  real  impression 
they  were  calculated  to  produce,  or  whether  a  commune  with 
kings  and  nobles  had  of  late  dignified  their  old  expression,  as 
power  was  said  to  have  clothed  the  soldier-mien  of  Cromwell 
with  a  monarch's  bearing — I  do  not  affect  to  decide;  but  I 
thought  that,  in  his  high  brow  and  Roman  features,  the  com- 
pression of  his  lip,  and  his  calm  but  haughty  air,  there  was  a 
nobleness,  which  I  acknowledged  for  the  first  time.  "  Stay, 
my  father,"  said  I,  surveying  him,  "  and  tell  me,  if  there  be  no 
irreverence  in  the  question,  whether  brocade  and  a  sword  are 
compatible  with  the  laws  of  the  Order  of  Jesus  ?" 

"Policy,  Morton,"  answered  Montreuil,  "often  dispenses 
with  custom  ;  and  the  declarations  of  the  Institute  provide, 
with  their  usual  wisdom,  for  worldly  and  temporary  occasions. 
Even  while  the  constitution  ordains  us  to  discard  habits  repug- 
nant to  our  professions  of  poverty,  the  following  exception  is 
made :  'Si  in  occurrenti  aliqua  occasione,  vel  necessitate,  quis 
vestibus  melioribus,  honestis  tamen,  indueretur.'  "  * 

There  is  now,  then,  some  occasion  for  a  more  glittering 
display  than  ordinary  ?"  said  I, 

"There  is,  my  pupil,"  answered  Montreuil ;  "and  whenever 
you  embrace  the  offer  of  my  friendship  made  to  you  more  than 
two  years  ago, — ^whenever,  too,  your  ambition  points  to  a  lofty 

A  -T,"^^"'  shqiiU  th«re_  chswce  any  occasion  or  necessity,  one  may  wear  better,  thoueh 
Trtill  decorons  garmints.  '  '  :•     '  * 


DEVEREUX.  ^9 

and  sublime  career — whenever,  to  make  and  unmake  kings, — 
and,  in  the  noblest  sphere  to  execute  the  will  of  God, — indem- 
nifies you  for  a  sacrifice  of  petty  wishes  and  momentary 
passions,  I  will  confide  to  you  a  scheme  worthy  of  your  ances- 
tors and  yourself." 

With  this  the  priest  departed.  Left  to  myself,  I  revolved 
his  hints,  and  marvelled  at  the  power  he  seemed  to  possess. 
"  Closeted  with  kings,"  said  I,  soliloquizing, — "  bearing  their 
presents  through  armed  men  and  military  espionage, — speaking 
of  empires  and  their  overthrow  as  of  ordinary  objects  of 
ambition — and  he  himself  a  low-born  and  undignified  priest, 
of  a  poor  though  a  wise  order — well,  there  is  more  in  this  than 
I  can  fathom  ;  but  I  will  hesitate  before  I  embark  in  his  dan- 
gerous and  concealed  intrigues — above  all,  I  will  look  well  ere 
I  hazard  my  safe  heritage  of  these  broad  lands  in  the  service  of 
that  House  which  is  reported  to  be  ungrateful,  and  which  is 
certainly  exiled." 

After  this  prudent  and  notable  resolution,  I  took  up  the 
sword — re-examined  it — kissed  the  hilt  once  and  the  blade 
twice — put  it  under  my  pillow — sent  for  my  valet — undrest — 
went  to  bed — fell  asleep — and  dreamt  that  I  was  teaching  the 
Marechal  de  Villars  the  thrust  en  seconde. 

But  Fate,  that  arch-gossip,  who,  like  her  prototypes  on  earth, 
settles  all  our  affairs  for  us  without  our  knowledge  of  the  matter, 
had  decreed  that  my  friendship  with  the  Abb6  Montreuil 
should  be  of  very  short  continuance,  and  that  my  adventures 
on  earth  should  flow  through  a  different  channel  than,  in  all 
probability,  they  would  have  done  under  his  spiritual  direction. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

A  mysterious  Letter — a  Duel — The  Departure  of  one  of  the  Family. 

The  next  morning  I  communicated  to  the  Abb6  my  inten- 
tion of  proceeding  to  London.  He  received  it  with  favor.  "I 
myself,"  said  he,  "  shall  soon  meet  you  there  ;  my  oflEice  in 
your  family  has  expired,  and  your  mother,  after  so  long  an  ab- 
sence, will  perhaps  readily  dispense  with  my  spiritual  advice  to 
her.  But  time  presses — since  you  depart  so  soon,  give  me  an 
audience  to-night  in  your  apartment.  Perhaps  our.  conversa- 
tion may  be  of  moment."  ...  • 

I  agreed — the  hour  was  fixed,  and  I  left  the  Abb^'to  join  my 
uncle  and  his  guests.     While  I  was  employing,  among  them,  my 


to  DEVEREUX. 

time  and  genius  with  equal  dignity  and  profit,  one  of  the  serv' 
ants  informed  me  that  a  man  at  the  gate  wished  to  see  me — 
and  alone. 

Somewhat  surprised,  I  followed  the  servant  out  of  the  room 
into  the  great  hall,  and  desired  him  to  bid  the  stranger  attend 
me  there.  In  a  few  minutes,  a  small,  dark  man,  dressed  between 
gentility  and  meanness,  made  his  appearance.  He  greeted  me 
with  great  respect,  and  presented  a  letter,  which,  he  said,  he 
was  charged  to  deliver  into  my  own  hands,  "  with,"  he  added 
in  a  low  tone,  "  a  special  desire  that  none  should,  till  I  had  care- 
fully read  it,  be  made  acquainted  with  its  contents."  I  was  not 
a  little  startled  by  this  request ;  and,  withdrawing  to  one  of  the 
windows,  broke  the  seal.  A  letter,  inclosed  in  the  envelope,  in 
the  Abbe's  own  handwriting,  was  the  first  thing  that  met  ray 
eyes.  At  that  instant  the  Abbe  himself  rushed  into  the  hall. 
He  cast  one  hasty  look  at  the  messenger,  whose  countenance 
evinced  something  of  surprise  and  consternation  at  beholding 
him;  and,  hastening  up  to  me,  grasped  my  hand  vehemently, 
and,  while  his  eye  dwelt  upon  the  letter  I  held,  cried,  "Do  not 
read  it — not  a  word — not  a  word,  there  is  poison  in  it  !  "  And, 
so  saying,  he  snatched  desperately  at  the  letter.  I  detained  it 
from  him  with  one  hand,  and  pushing  him  aside  with  the  other, 
said — 

"  Pardon  me,  Father — directly  I  have  read  it  you  shall  have 
that  pleasure— not  till  then;"  and,  as  I  said  this,  my  eye  fall- 
ing upon  the  letter,  discovered  my  own  name  written  in  two 
places— my  suspicions  were  aroused.  I  raised  my  eyes  to  the 
spot  where  the  messenger  had  stood,  with  the  view  of  address- 
ing some  question  to  him  respecting  his  employer,  when,  to  my 
surprise,  I  perceived  he  was  already  gone  ;  I  had  no  time,  how- 
ever, to  follow  him. 

"Boy,"  said  the  Abbe,  gasping  for  breath,  and  still  seizing 
me  with  his  lean,  bony  hand,-^"  boy,  give  me  that  letter  in- 
stantly.    I  charge  you  not  to  disobey  me." 

"  You  forget  yourself,  sir,"  said  I,  endeavoring  to  shake  him 
off,  "  you  forget  yourself  :  there  is  no  longer  between  us  the 
distinction  of  pupil  and  teacher ;  and  if  you  have  not  yet 
learnt  the  respect  due  to  my  station,  suffer  me  to  tell  you  that 
it  is  time  you  should." 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  I  beseech  you,"  said  Montreuil,  chang- 
ing his  voice  from  anger  to  supplication  ;  "  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  my  violence  ;  the  letter  does  not  concern  you  but  me  ;  there 
is  a  secret  in  those  lines  which  you  see,a^e  in  my  handwriting, 
that  implicates  my  personal  safety.     Give  it  me,  my  dear,  dear 


son — your  own  honor,  if  not  your  affection  for  me,  demands 
that  you  should." 

I  was  staggered.  His  violence  had  confirmed  my  suspicions, 
but  his  gentleness  weakened  them.  "  Besides,"  thought  I,  "  the 
handwriting  is  /it's,  and  even  if  my  life  depended  upon  reading 
the  letter  of  another,  I  do  not  think  my  honor  would  suffer  me 
to  do  so  against  his  consent-"     A  thought  struck  me — 

"  Will  you  swear,"  said  I,  "that  this  letter  does  not  concern 
me?" 

"  Solemnly,"  answered  the  Abb6,  raising  his  eyes. 

"  Will  you  swear  that  I  am  not  mentioned  in  it  ? " 

**  Upon  peril  of  my  soul,  I  will." 

''Liar — traitor — perjured  blasphemer  !  "  cried  I,  in  an  inex- 
pressible rage,  "look  here,  and  here!"  and  I  pointed  out  to 
the  priest  various  lines  in  which  my  name  legibly  and  frequently 
occurred.  A  change  came  over  Montreuil's  face  ;  he  released 
my  arm  and  staggered  back  against  the  wainscot ;  but  recover- 
ing his  composure  instantaneously,  he  said,  "  I  forgot,  my  son, 
I  forgot — your  name  is  mentioned,  it  is  true,  but  with  honor- 
able eulogy,  that  is  all." 

"  Bravo,  honest  Father  !  "  cried  I,  losing  my  fury  in  admiring 
surprise  at  his  address — "  bravo  !  However,  if  that  be  all,  you 
can  have  no  objection  to  allow  me  to  read  the  lines  in  which 
my  name  occurs  ;  your  benevolence  cannot  refuse  me  such  a 
gratification  as  the  sight  of  your  written  panegyric  ! " 

"Count  Devereux,"  said  the  Abb6  sternly,  while  his  dark 
face  worked  with  suppressed  passion,  "this  is  trifling  with  me, 
and  I  warn  you  not  to  push  my  patience  too  far.  I  7m7I  have 
that  letter,  or — "  he  ceased  abruptly,  and  touched  the  hilt  of 
his  sword. 

"Dare  you  threaten  me?"  I  said,  and  the  natural  fierceness 
of  my  own  disposition,  deepened  by  vague  and  strong  suspi- 
cions of  some  treachery  designed  against  me,  spoke  in  the  tones 
of  my  voice. 

"  Dare  I !  "  repeated  Montreuil,  sinking  and  sharpening  his 
voice  into  a  sort  of  inward  screech.  "  Dare  I  ! — ay,  were  your 
whole  tribe  arrayed  against  me.  Give  me  the  letter,  or  you 
will  find  me  now  and  for  ever  your  most  deadly  foe  ;  deadly — 
ay — deadly,  deadly  !  "  and  he  shook  his  clenched  hand  at  me, 
with  an  expression  of  countenance  so  malignant  and  menacing 
that  I  drew  back  involuntarily,  and  laid  my  hand  on  my  sword. 

The  action  seemed  to  give  Montreuil  a  signal  for  which  he 
had  hitherto  waited.  "  Draw  then,"  he  said  through  his  teeth, 
and  unsheathed  his  rapier. 


^2  DEVEREUX, 

Though  surprised  at  his  determination,  I  was  not  backward 
in  meeting  it.  Thrusting  the  letter  in  my  bosom,  I  drew  my 
sword  in  time  to  parry  a  rapid  and  fierce  thrust.  I  had  expected 
easily  to  master  Montreuil,  for  I  had  some  skill  at  my  weapon; — 
I  was  deceived — I  found  him  far  more  adroit  than  myself  in 
the  art  of  offence  ;  and  perhaps  it  would  have  fared  ill  for  the 
hero  of  this  narrative  had  Montreuil  deemed  it  wise  to  direct 
against  my  life  all  the  science  he  possessed.  But  the  moment 
our  swords  crossed,  the  constitutional  coolness  of  the  man,  which 
rage  or  fear  had  for  a  brief  time  banished,  returned  at  once, 
and  he  probably  saw  that  it  would  be  as  dangerous  to  him  to 
take  away  the  life  of  his  pupil,  as  to  forfeit  the  paper  for  which 
he  fought.  He,  therefore,  appeared  to  bend  all  his  efforts 
towards  disarming  me.  Whether  or  not  he  would  have  effected 
this  it  is  hard  to  say,  for  my  blood  was  up,  and  any  neglect  of 
my  antagonist,  in  attaining  an  object  very  dangerous,  when  en- 
gaged with  a  skilful  and  quick  swordsman,  might  have  sent  him 
to  the  place  from  which  the  prayers  of  his  brethren  have  (we. 
are  bound  to  believe)  released  so  many  thousands  of  souls. 
But,  meanwhile,  the  servants,  who  at  first  thought  the  clashing 
of  swords  was  the  wanton  sport  of  some  young  gallants  as  yet 
new  to  the  honor  of  wearing  them,  grew  alarmed  by  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  sound,  and  flocked  hurriedly  to  the  place  of 
contest.  At  their  intrusion,  we  mutually  drew  back.  Recov- 
ering my  presence  of  mind,  (it  was  a  possession  I  very  easily 
lost  at  that  time,)  I  saw  the  unseemliness  of  fighting  with  my 
preceptor,  and  a  priest.  I  therefore  burst,  though  awkwardly 
enough,  into  a  laugh,  and,  affecting  to  treat  the  affair  as  a 
friendly  trial  of  skill  between  the  Abbe  and  myself,  resheathed 
my  sword  and  dismissed  the  intruders,  who,  evidently  disbe- 
lieving my  version  of  the  story,  retreated  slowly,  and  exchang- 
ing looks,  Montreuil,  who  had  scarcely  seconded  my  attempt 
to  gloss  over  our  rencontre^  now  approached  me, 

"  Count,"  he  said  with  a  collected  and  cool  voice,  "suffer  me 
to  request  you  to  exchange  three  words  with  me,  in  a  spot  less 
liable  than  this  to  interruption." 

"  Follow  me  then  !  "  said  I — and  I  led  the  way  to  a  part  of 
the  grounds  which  lay  remote  and  sequestered  from  intrusion. 
I  then  turned  round,  and  perceived  that  the  Abb^  had  left  his  ' 
sword  behind.  "  How  is  this  ? "  I  said,  pointing  to  his  un- 
armed side — "  have  you  not  come  hither  to  renew  our  engage- 
ment ? " 

.  "No!"  answered  Montreuil,"!  repent  me  of  my  sudden 
haste,  and  I  have  resolved  to  deny  myself  all  further  possibility 


devereux.  75 

of  unseemly  warfare.  That  letter,  young  man,  I  still  demand 
from  you;  I  demand  it  from  your  own  sense  of  honor  and  of 
right — it  was  written  by  me — it  was  not  intended  for  your  eye — 
it  contains  secrets  implicating  the  lives  of  others  beside  my- 
self ;  now — read  it  if  you  will." 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  said  I,  after  a  short  pause ;  "  there  is 
the  letter ;  never  shall  it  be  said  of  Morton  Devereux  that  he 
hazarded  his  honor  to  secure  his  safety. — But  the  tie.  between 
us  is  broken  now  and  for  ever  !  " 

So  saying,  I  flung  down  the  debated  epistle,  and  strode  away. 
I  re-entered  the  great  hall.  I  saw  by  one  of  the  windows  a 
sheet  of  paper — I  picked  it  up,  and  perceived  that  it  was  the 
envelope  in  which  the  letter  had  been  enclosed.  It  contained 
only  these  lines,  addressed  to  me  in  French: 

"  A  friend  of  the  late  Marshal  Devereux  encloses  to  his  son 
a  letter,  the  contents  of  which  it  is  essential  for  his  safety  that 
he  should  know. 

"C.  D.  B." 

"  Umph  ! "  said  I — "a  very  satisfactory  intimation,  consider- 
ing that  the  son  of  the  late  Marshal  Devereux  is  so  very  well 
assured  that  he  shall  not  know  one  line  of  the  contents  of  the. 
said  letter.  But  let  me  see  after  this  messenger  !  "  and  I  im- 
mediately hastened  to  institute  inquiry  respecting  him.  I  found 
that  he  was  already  gone  ;  on  leaving  the  hall  he  had  remounted 
his  hiorse,  and  taken  his  departure.  One  servant,  however,  had 
seen  him,  as  he  passed  the  front  court,  address  a  few  words  to 
my  valet,  Desmarais,  who  happened  to  be  loitering  there.  I 
summoned  Desmarais  and  questioned  him. 

"  The  dirty  fellow,"  said  the  Frenchman,  pointing  to  his 
spattered  stockings  with  a  lachrymose  air,  "splashed  me,  by  a 
prance  of  his  horse,  from  head  to  foot,  and  while  I  was  scream- 
ing for  very  anguish,  he  stopped  and  said,  '  Tell  the  Count 
Devereux  that  I  was  unable  to  tarry,  but  that  the  letter  requires 
no  answer.'" 

I  consoled  Desmarais  for  his  misfortune,  and  hastened  to  my 
uncle  with  a  determination  to  reveal  to  him  all  that  had  oc- 
curred. Sir  William  was  in  his  dressing-room,  and  his  gentle- 
man was  very  busy  in  adorning  his  wig.  I  entreated  him  to 
dismiss  the  coiffeur,  and  then,  without  much  preliminary  detail, 
acquainted  him  with  all  that  had  passed. between  the  Abbe  and 
myself.  .,  .  . 

'I'he  knight  seemed  startled  when  I  came  to  the  story  of- the 
sword.     "'Gad,  Sir  Count,  what  have  you  been  doing?"  said 


74  tiEVEkEUX. 

he  ;  "  know  you  not  that  this  may  be  a  very  ticklish  matter  ? 
The  king  of  France  is  a  very  great  man,  to  be  sure — a  very 
great  man — and  a  very  fine  gentleman  ;  but  you  will  please  to 
remember  that  we  are  at  war  with  his  Majesty,  and  I  can- 
not guess  how  far  the  accepting  such  presents  may  be  held 
treasonable." 

And  Sir  William  shook  his  head  with  a  mournful  significance. 
"Ah,"  cried  he,  at  last  (when  I  had  concluded  my  whole  story), 
with  a  complacent  look,  "  I  have  not  lived  at  court,  and  studied 
human  nature,  for  nothing  :  and  I  will  wager  my  best  full-bot- 
tom to  a  night-cap,  that  the  crafty  old  fox  is  as  much  a  Jacob- 
ite as  he  is  a  rogue  !  The  letter  would  have  proved  it,  sir — it 
would  have  proved  it  !  " 

"  But  what  shall  be  done  now  ? "  said  I ;  "  will  you  suffer  him 
to  remain  any  longer  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Why,"  replied  the  knight,  suddenly  recollecting  his  rever- 
ence to  the  fair  sex,  "  he  is  your  mother's  guest,  not  mine  ;  we 
must  refer  the  matter  to  her.  But  zauns,  sir,  with  all  deference 
to  her  ladyship,  we  cannot  suffer  our  house  to  be  a  conspiracy- 
hatch  as  well  as  a  popish  chapel ;  and  to  attempt  your  life  too — 
the  devil !  Od'sfish,  boy,  I  will  go  to  the  countess  myself,  if 
you  will  just  let  Nicholls  finish  my  wig — never  attend  the  ladies 
en  deshabille — always,  with  them,  take  care  of  your  person  most, 
when  you  most  want  to  display  your  mind  ;"  and  my  uncle 
ringing  a  little  silver  bell  on  his  dressing-table,  the  sound  im- 
mediately brought  Nicholls  to  his  toilet. 

Trusting  the  cause  to  the  zeal  of  my  uncle,  whose  hatred  to 
the  ecclesiastic  would,  I  knew,  be  an  efficacious  adjunct  to  his 
diplomatic  address,  and  not  unwilling  to  avoid  being  myself  the 
person  to  acquaint  my  mother  with  the  suspected  delinquency 
of  her  favorite,  I  hastened  from  the  knight's  apartment  in  search 
of  Aubrey.  He  was  not  in  the  house.  His  attendants  (for  my 
uncle,  with  old-fashioned  grandeur  of  respect,  suitable  to  his 
great  wealth  and  aristocratic  temper,  allotted  to  each  of  us  a 
separate  suite  of  servants  as  well  as  of  apartments)  believed  he 
was  in  the  park.  Thither  I  repaired,  and  found  him,  at  length, 
seated  by  an  old  tree,  with  a  large  book  of  a  religious  cast  be- 
fore him,  on  which  his  eyes  were  intently  bent. 

"  I  rejoice  to  have  found  thee,  my  gentle  brother,"  said  I, 
throwing  myself  on  the  green  turf  by  his  side :  "  in  truth  you 
have  chosen  a  fitting  and  fair  place  for  study." 

"I  have  chosen,"  said  Aubrey,  "  a  place  meet  for  the  peculiar 
study  I  am  engrossed  in  ;  for  where  can  we  better  read  of  the 
power  and  benevolence  of  God   than  among  the  living  testi- 


DEVEREUX,  75 

monies  of  both  ?  Beautiful ! — how  very  beautiful — is  this  happy 
world  ;  but  I  fear,"  added  Aubrey,  and  the  glow  of  his  count- 
enance died  away, — "  I  fear  that  we  enjoy  it  too  much." 

"  We  hold  different  interpretations  of  our  creed  then,"  said 
I,  "  for  I  esteem  enjoyment  the  best  proof  of  gratitude  ;  nor  do 
I  think  we  can  pay  a  more  acceptable  duty  to  the  Father  of  all 
Goodness  than  by  showing  ourselves  sensible  of  the  favors  he 
bestows  upon  us." 

Aubrey  sliook  his  head  gently,  but  replied  not. 

"Yes,"  resumed  I,  after  a  pause — "  yes,  it  is  indeed  a  glo- 
rious and  fair  world  which  we  have  for  our  inheritance.  Look, 
how  the  sunlight  sleeps  yonder  upon  fields  covered  with  golden 
corn,  and  seems,  like  the  divine  benevolence  of  which  you 
spoke,  to  smile  upon  the  luxuriance  which  its  power  created. 
This  carpet  at  our  feet,  covered  with  flowers  that  breathe, 
sweet  as  good  deeds,  to  Heaven — the  stream  that  breaks 
through  that  distant  copse,  laughing  in  the  light  of  noon,  and 
sending  its  voice  through  the  hill  and  woodland,  like  a  messen- 
ger of  glad  tidings — the  green  boughs  over  our  head,  vocal 
with  a  thousand  songs,  all  inspirations  of  a  joy  too  exquisite 
for  silence — the  very  leaves,  which  seem  to  dance  and  quiver 
with  delight — think  you,  Aubrey,  that  these  are  so  sullen  as 
not  to  return  thanks  for  the  happiness  they  imbibe  with  being  ; 
— what  are  those  thanks  but  the  incense  of  their  joy  ?  The 
flowers  send  it  up  to  heaven  in  fragrance — the  air  and  the  wave 
in  music.  Shall  the  heart  of  man  be  the  only  part  of  His 
creation  that  shall  dishonor  His  worship  with  lamentation  and 
gloom?  When  the  inspired  writers  call  upon  us  to  praise  our 
Creator,  do  they  not  say  to  us — '  '^t  joyful  in  your  God  ?' " 

"  How  can  we  be  joyful  with  the  Judgment-day  ever  before 
us?"  said  Aubrey — "how  can  we  be  joyful,"  (and  here  a  dark 
shade  crossed  his  countenance,  and  his  lip  trembled  with 
emotion),  while  the  deadly  passions  of  this  world  plead  and 
rankle  at  the  heart  ?  Oh,  none  but  they  who  have  known  the 
full  blessedness  of  a  commune  with  heaven  can  dream  of  the 
whole  anguish  and  agony  of  the  conscience,  when  it  feels  itself 
sullied  by  the  mire  and  crushed  by  the  load  of  earth  !  "  Aubrey 
paused,  and  his  words — his  tone — his  look — made  upon  me  a 
powerful  impression.  I  was  about  to  answer,  when,  interrupt- 
ing me,  he  said,  "  Let  us  talk  not  of  these  matters — speak  to 
me  on  more  worldly  topics." 

*'I  sought  you,"  said  I,  "that  I  might  do  so!"  and  I  pro- 
ceeded to  detail  to  Aubrey  as  much  of  my  private  intercourse 
with  the  Abbe  as  I  deemed  necessary  in  order  to  warn  him 

.f\.\\jiii.t''. 


76  DEVEREUX. 

from  too  close  a  confidence  in  the  wily  ecclesiastic.  Aubrey 
listened  to  me  with  earnest  attention  :  the  affair  of  the  letter — 
the  gross  falsehood  of  the  priest  in  denying  the  mention  of  my 
name,  in  his  epistle,  evidently  dismayed  him.  "  But,"  said  he, 
after  a  long  silence — "but  it  is  not  for  us,  Morton — weak, 
ignorant,  inexperienced  as  we  are — to  judge  prematurely  of  our 
spiritual  pastors.  To  them  also  is  given  a  far  greater  license 
of  conduct  than  to  us — and  ways  enveloped  in  what  to  our 
eyes  are  mystery  and  shade  ;  nay,  I  know  not  whether  it  be 
much  less  impious  to  question  the  paths  of  God's  chosen,  than 
to  scrutinize  those  of  the  Deity  himself." 

"  Aubrey,  Aubrey,  this  is  childish  ! "  said  I,  somewhat  moved 
to  anger.  "Mystery  is  always  the  trick  of  imposture:  God's 
chosen  should  be  distinguished  from  their  flock  only  by  superior 
virtue,  and  not  by  a  superior  privilege  in  deceit." 

"But,"  said  Aubrey,  pointing  to  a  passage  in  the  book  before 
him,  "see  what  a  preacher  of  the  word  has  said!" — and 
Aubrey  recited  one  of  the  most  dangerous  maxims  in  priest- 
craft, as  reverently  as  if  he  were  quoting  from  the  Scripture 
itself.  "  *  The  nakedness  of  truth  should  never  be  too  openly 
exposed  to  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar.  It  was  wisely  feigned,  by 
the  ancients,  that  Truth  did  lie  concealed  in  a  well ! '" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  with  enthusiasm,  "but  that  well  is  like  the 
holy  stream  at  Dodona,  which  has  the  gift  of  enlightening 
those  who  seek  it,  and  the  power  of  illumining  every  torch 
which  touches  the  surface  of  its  water  !  " 

Whatever  answer  Aubrey  might  have  made  was  interruptecl 
by  my  uncle,  who  appeared  approaching  towards  us  with 
unusual  satisfaction  depicted  on  his  comply  countenance. 

"  Well,  boys,  well,"  said  he,  when  he  came  within  hearing — 
"a  holyday  for  you  !  Od'sfish — and  a  holier  day  than  my  old 
house  has  known  since  its  former  proprietor,  Sir  Hugo,  of 
valorous  memory,  demolished  the  nunnery,  of  which  some  re- 
mains yet  stand  on  yonder  eminence.  Morton,  my  man  of 
might,  the  thing  is  done — the  court  is  purified — the  wicked  one 
is  departed.  Look  here,  and  be  as  happy  as  I  am  at  our  release  ;" 
and  he  threw  me  a  note  in  Montreuil's  writing  : 
"To  Sir  William  Devereux,  Kt.: 

"My  Honored  Friend  :  In  consequence  of  a  dispute  between 
your  eldest  nephew,  Count  Morton  Devereux,  and  myself,  in 
which  he  desired  me  to  remember,  not  only  that  our  former 
relationship  of  tutor  and  pupil  was  at  an  end,  but  that  friend- 
ship for  his  person  was  incompatible  with  the  respect  due  to 
his  superior  station,  I  can  neither  so  far  degrade  the  dignity  of 


DEVEREUX.  77 

letters,  nor,  above  all,  so  meanly  debase  the  sanctity  of  my  divine 
profession,  as  any  longer  to  remain  beneath  your  hospitable 
roof, — a  guest  not  only  unwelcome  to,  but  insulted  by,  your 
relation  and  apparent  heir.  Suffer  me  to  offer  you  my  gratitude 
for  the  favors  you  have  hitherto  bestowed  on  me,  and  to  bid 
you  farewell  for  ever. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be. 

With  the  most  profound  respect,  etc., 

"Julian  Montreuil," 

"Well,  sir,  what  say  you?"  cried  my  uncle,  stamping  his 
cane  firmly  on  the  ground,  when  I  had  finished  reading  the 
letter,  and  had  transmitted  it  to  Aubrey. 

"  That  the  good  Abb&  has  displayed  his  usual  skill  in  com- 
position. And  my  mother?  Is  she  imbued  with  our  opinion 
of  his  priestship?" 

*'  Not  exactly,  I  fear.  However,  Heaven  bless  her,  she  is 
too  soft  to  say  '  nay.'  But  those  Jesuits  are  so  smooth-tongued 
to  women.  'Gad,  they  threaten  damnation  with  such  an  irre- 
sistible air,  that  they  are  as  much  like  William  the  Conqueror 
as  Edward  the  Confessor.  Ha!  Master  Aubrey,  have  you  be- 
come amorous  of  the  old  Jacobite,  that  you  sigh  over  his 
crabbed  writing,  as  if  it  were  a  billet-doux  1" 

"  There  seems  a  great  deal  of  feeling  in  what  he  says,  sir," 
said  Aubrey,  returning  the  letter  to  my  uncle. 

*' Feeling !"  cried  the  knight;  "ay,  the  reverend  gentry  al- 
ways have  a  marvellously  tender  feeling  for  their  own  interest 
— eh,  Morton  ?" 

"  Right,  dear  sir,"  said  I,  wishing  to  change  a  subject  which 
I  knew  might  hurt  Aubrey  ;  "but  should  we  not  join  yon  party 
of  dames  and  damsels?  I  see  they  are  about  to  make  a  water 
excursion." 

"  'Sdeath,  sir,  with  all  my  heart,"  cried  the  good-natured 
knight :  "I  love  to  see  the  dear  creatures  amuse  themselves  ; 
for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Morton,"  said  he,  sinking  his  voice 
into  a  knowing  whisper,  "  the  best  thing  to  keep  them  froiii 
playing  the  devil  is  to  encourage  them  in  playing  the  fool!" 
and,  laughing  heartily  at  the  jest  he  had  purloined  from  one 
of  his  favorite  writers,  Sir  William  led  the  way  to  the  water- 
party. 


fS  DEVEREUX. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Being  a  Chapter  of  Trifles. 

L>i>.\  •      _ 

The  Abh6  disappeared  !  It  is  astonishing  how  well  every- 
body bore  his  departure.  My  mother  scarcely  spoke  on  the 
subject  :  but,  along  the  irrefragable  smoothness  of  her  tempera- 
ment, all  things  glided  without  resistance  to  their  course,  or 
trace  where  they  had  been.  Gerald,  who,  occupied  solely  in 
rural  sports  or  rustic  loves,  seldom  mingled  in  the  festivities  of 
the  house,  was  equally  silent  on  the  subject.  Aubrey  looked 
grieved  for  a  day  or  two  ;  but  his  countenance  soon  settled  into 
its  customary  and  grave  softness  ;  and,  in  less  than  a  week,  so 
little  was  the  Abbe  spoken  of  or  missed  that  you  would  scarcely 
have  imagined  Julian  Montreuil  had  ever  passed  the  threshold 
of  our  gate.  The  oblivion  of  one  buried  is  nothing  to  the  ob- 
livion of  one  disgraced. 

Meanwhile,  I  pressed  for  my  departure  ;  and,  at  length,  the 
day  was  finally  fixed.  Ever  since  that  conversation  with  Lady 
Hasselton,  which  has  been  set  before  the  reader,  that  lady  had 
lingered  and  lingered — though  the  house  was  growing  empty, 
and  London,  in  all  seasons,  was,  according  to  her,  better  than 
the  country  in  any — until  the  Count  Devereux,  with  that  ami- 
able modesty  which  so  especially  characterized  him,  began  to 
suspect  that  the  Lady  Hasselton  lingered  on  his  account.  This 
emboldened  that  bashful  personage  to  press  in  earnest  for  the 
fourth  seat  in  the  beauty's  carriage,  which,  we  have  seen  in  the 
conversation  before  mentioned,  had  been  previously  offered  to 
him  in  jest.  After  a  great  affectation  of  horror  at  the  proposal, 
the  Lady  Hasselton  yielded.  She  had  always,  she  said,  been 
dotingly  fond  of  children,  and  it  was  certainly  very  shocking  to 
send  such  a  chit  as  the  little  Count  to  London  by  himself. 

My  uncle  was  charmed  with  the  arrangement.  The  beauty 
was  a  peculiar  favorite  of  his,  and,  in  fact,  he  was  sometimes 
pleased  to  hint  that  he  had  private  reasons  for  love  towards  her 
mother's  daughter.  Of  the  truth  of  this  insinuation  I  am,  how- 
ever, more  than  somewhat  suspicious,  and  believe  it  was  only  a 
little  ruse  of  the  good  knight,  in  order  to  excuse  the  vent  of 
those  kindly  affections  with  which  (while  the  heartless  tone  of 
the  company  his  youth  had  frequented  made  him  ashamed  to 
own  it)  his  breast  overflowed.  There  was  in  Lady  Hassclton's 
familiarity — her  ease  of  manner — a  certain  good-nature  mingled 
with  her  affectation,  and  a  gaiety  of  spirit,  which  never  flagged 


bEVEREtJX.  "J^ 

— something  greatly  calculated  to  win  favor  with  a  man  of  my 
uncle's  temper. 

An  old  gentleman  who  filled  in  her  family  the  office  of  "the 
chevalier''^  in  a  French  one  ;  viz.,  who  told  stories,  riot  too  long, 
and  did  not  challenge  you  for  interrupting  them — who  had  a 
good  air,  and  unexceptionable  pedigree — a  turn  for  wit,  litera- 
ture, note-writing,  and  the  management  of  lap-dogs — who  could 
attend  Madame  to  auctions,  plays,  court,  and  the  puppet-show — 
who  had  a  right  to  the  best  company,  but  would,  on  a  signal, 
give  up  his  seat  to  any  one  the  pretty  capricieuse  whom  he 
served  might  select  from  the  worst — in  short  a  very  useful, 
charming  personage,  "vastly"  liked  by  all,  and  "prodigiously" 
respected  by  none  ;  this  gentleman,  I  say,  by  name  Mr.  Lovell, 
had  attended  her  ladyship  in  her  excursion  to  Devereux  Court. 
Besides  him  there  came  also  a  widow  lady,  a  distant  relation, 
with  one  eye  and  a  sharp  tongue — the  Lady  Needleham,  whom 
the  beauty  carried  about  with  her  as  a  sort  oi gouvernante  or 
duenna.  These  excellent  persons  made  my  compagnons  de  voy- 
age, and  filled  the  remaining  complements  of  the  coach.  To 
say  truth,  and  to  say  nothing  of  my  tendresse  for  the  Lady  Has- 
selfon,  I  Avas  very  anxious  to  escape  the  ridicule  of  crawling  up 
to  town,  like  a  green  beetle,  in  my  uncle's  verdant  chariot,  with 
the  four  Flanders  mares  trained  not  to  exceed  two  miles  an 
hour.  And  my  Lady  Hasselton's/r/w/^  railleries — for  she  was 
really  well  bred,  and  made  no  jest  of  my  uncle's  antiquities  of 
taste,  in  his  presence,  at  least — had  considerably  heightened 
my  intuitive  dislike  to  that  mode  of  transporting  myself  to  the 
metropolis.  The  day  before  my  departure,  Gerald^  for  the  first 
time,  spoke  of  it. 

Glancing  towards  the  mirror,  which  gave  in  full  contrast  the 
magnificent  beauty  of  his  person,  and  the  smaller  proportions 
and  plainer  features  of  my  own,  he  said,  with  a  sneer,  "  Your 
appearance  must  create  a  wonderful  sensation  in  town." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  said  I,  taking  his  words  literally,  and  ar- 
raying my  laced  cravat  with  the  air  of  a.  petit-mafire. 

"What  a  wit  the  Count  has!"  whispered  the  Duchess^  df 
Lackland — who  had  not  yet  given  up  all  hope  of  the  elder 
brother. 

"  Wit,"  said  the  Lady  Hasselton  :  "poor  child,  he  is  a  per- 
fect simpleton  ! " 


DEVEkEUJt. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


The  Mother  and  Son — ^Virtue  Should  be  the  Sovereign"of  the  Feelings,  not 
their  Destroyer. 

I  TOOK  the  first  opportunity  to  escape  from  the  good  com- 
pany who  were  so  divided  in  opinion  as  to  my  mental  accom- 
plishments, and  repaired  to  my  mother  ;  for  whom,  despite  of 
her  evenness  of  disposition,  verging  towards  insensibility,  I  felt 
a  powerful  and  ineffaceable  affection.  Indeed,  if  purity  -of 
life,  rectitude  of  intentions,  and  fervor  of  piety,  can  win  love, 
none  ever  deserved  it  more  than  she.  It  was  a  pity  that,  with 
such  admirable  qualities,  she  had  not  more  diligently  cultivated 
her  affections.  The  seed  was  not  wanting  ;  but  it  had  been 
neglected.  Originally  intended  for  the  veil,  she  had  been  taught, 
early  in  life,  that  much  feeling  was  synonymous  with  much  sin  ; 
and  she  had  so  long  and  so  carefully  repressed  in  her  heart  every 
attempt  of  the  forbidden  fruit  to  put  forth  a  single  blossom,  that 
the  soil  seemed  at  last  to  have  become  incapable  of  bearing  it. 
If,  in  one  corner  of  this  barren,  but  sacred,  spot,  some  green 
and  tender  verdure  of  affection  did  exist,  it  was,  with  a  partial 
and  petty  reserve  for  my  twin-brother,  kept  exclusive,  and 
consecrated  to  Aubrey.  His  congenial  habits  of  pious  silence 
and  rigid  devotion — his  softness  of  temper — his  utter  freedom 
from  all  boyish  excesses,  joined  to  his  almost  angelic  beauty — 
a  quality  which,  in  no  female  heart,  is  ever  without  its  value — 
were  exactly  calculated  to  attract  her  sympathy,  and  wort  them- 
selves into  her  love.  Gerald  was  also  regular  in  his  habits,  atten- 
tive to  devotion,  and  had,  from  an  early  period,  been  high  in 
the  favor  of  her  spiritual  director.  Gerald,  too,  if  he  had  not 
the  delicate  and  dreamlike  beauty  of  Aubrey,  possessed  attrac- 
tions of  more  masculine  and  decided  order ;  and  for  Gerald, 
therefore,  the  Countess  gave  the  little  of  love  that  she  could 
spare  from  Aubrey.  To  me  she  manifested  the  most  ut\er  in- 
difference. My  difficult  and  fastidious  temper — my  sarcastic 
turn  of  mind — my  violent  and  headstrong  passions — my  daring, 
reckless,  and,  when  roused,  almost  ferocious  nature — all,  es- 
pecially revolted  the  even  and  polished  and  quiescent  charac- 
ter of  my  maternal  parent.  The  little  extravagances  of  my 
childhood  seemed  to  her  pure  and  inexperienced  mind,  the 
crimes  of  a  heart  naturally  distorted  and  evil ;  my  jesting  vein, 
which,  though  it  never,  even  in  the  wantonness  of  youth,  at- 
tacked the  substances  of  good,  seldom  respected  its  semblances 
and  its  forms,  she  considered  as  the  effusions  of  malignity  ;  an4 


DEVEREUX.  Sx 

t 

even  the  bursts  of  love,  kindness,  and  benevolence,  which  were 
by  no  means  infrequent  in  my  wild  and  motley  character,  were 
so  foreign  to  her  stillness  of  temperament  that  they  only  revolted 
her  by  their  violence,  instead  of  affecting  her  by  their  warmth. 

Nor  did  she  like  me  the  better  for  the  mutual  understanding 
between  my  uncle  and  myself.  On  the  contrary,  shocked  by 
the  idle  and  gay  turn  of  the  knight's  conversation,  the  frivol- 
ities of  his  mind,  and  his  heretical  disregard  for  the  forms  of 
the  religious  sect  which  she  so  zealously  espoused,  she  was 
utterly  insensible  to  the  points  which  redeemed  and  ennobled 
his  sterling  and  generous  character — utterly  obtuse  to  his 
warmth  of  heart — his  overflowing  kindness  of  disposition — his 
charity  — his  high  honor — his  justice  of  principle,  that  nothing 
save  benevolence  could  warp — and  the  shrewd,  penetrating 
sense,  which,  though  often  clouded  by  foibles  and  humorous 
eccentricity,  still  made  the  stratum  of  his  intellectual  compo- 
sition. Nevertheless,  despite  her  prepossessions  against  us 
both,  there  was  in  her  temper  something  so  gentle,  meek,  and 
un-upbraiding,  that  even  the  sense  of  injustice  lost  ks  sting, 
and  one  could  not  help  loving  the  softness  of  her  character, 
while  one  was  most  chilled  by  its  frigidity.  Anger,  hope,  fear, 
the  faintest  breath  or  sign  of  passion,  never  seemed  to  stir  the 
breezeless  languor  of  her  feelings  ;  and  quiet  was  so  inseparable 
from  her  image  that  I  have  almost  thought,  like  that  people 
described  by  Herodotus,  her  very  sleep  could  never  be  dis- 
turbed by  dreams. 

Yes  !  how  fondly,  how  tenderly  I  loved  her  !  What  tears^- 
§ecret,  but  deep — bitter,  but  unreproaching — have  I  retired  to 
shed,  when  I  cnught  her  cold  and  unaffectionate  glance.  How 
(unnoticed  and  uncared  for)  have  I  watched,  and  prayed,  and 
wept,  without  her  door,  when  a  transitory  sickness  or  suffering 
detained  her  within  ;  and  how,  when  stretched  myself  upon  tjie 
feverish  bed,  to  which  my  early  weakness  of  frame  often  con- 
demned me,  how  have  I  counted  the  moments  to  her  punctil- 
ious and  brief  visit,  and  started  as  I  caught  her  footstep,  and 
felt  my  heart  leap  within  me  as  she  approached  ;  and  then,  as 
I  heard  her  cold  tone,  and  looked  upon  her  unmoved  face, 
how  bitterly  have  I  turned  away  with  all  that  repressed 
;ind  crushed  affection  which  was  construed  into  sullenness  or 
disrespect.  O  mighty  and  enduring  force  of  eai-ly  associations, 
that  almost  seems,  in  its  unconquerable  strength,  to  partake  of 
an  innate  prepossession,  that  binds  the  son  to  the  mother,  who 
concealed  him  in  lier  womb,  and  purchased  life  for  him  with 
the  travail  of  death  ! — fountain  of  filial  leve,  which  coldnesg 


Sa  DEVEkEUX. 

cannot  freeze,  nor  injustice  embitter,  nor  pride  divert  into  fresh 
channels,  nor  time,  and  the  hot  suns  of  our  toiling  manhood, 
exhaust — even  at  this  moment,  how  livingly  do  you  gush  upon 
my  heart,  and  water  with  your  divine  waves  the  memories 
that  yet  flourish  amidst  the  sterility  of  years  ! 

I  approached  the  apartments  appropriated  to  my  mother — I 
knocked  at  her  door  ;  one  of  her  women  admitted  me  ;  the 
Countess  was  sitting  on  a  high-backed  chair,  curiously  adorned 
with  tapestry.  Her  feet,  which  were  remarkable  for  their 
beauty,  were  upon  a  velvet  cushion  ;  three  handmaids  stood 
round  her,  and  she  herself  was  busily  employed  in  a  piece  of 
delicate  embroidery,  an  art  in  which  she  eminently  excelled. 

"  The  Count — madam  !  "  said  the  woman  who  had  admitted 
me,  placing  a  chair  beside  my  mother,  and  then  retiring  to 
join  her  sister  maidens. 

"  Good-day  to  you,  my  son,"  said  the  Countess,  lifting  her 
eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then  dropping  them  again  upon  her 
work. 

"I  have  come  to  seek  you,  dearest  mother,  as  I  know  not,  if, 
among  the  crowd  of  guests  and  amusements  which  surround 
us,  I  shall  enjoy  another  opportunity  of  having  a  private  con- 
versation with  you — will  it  please  you  to  dismiss  yourwomen?" 

My  mother  again  lifted  up  her  eyes — "  And  why,  my  son  ? — 
surely  there  can  be  nothing  between  us  which  requires  their 
absence  ;  what  is  your  reason  ?" 

"  I  leave  you  to-morrow,  madam  ;  is  it  strange  that  a  son 
should  wish  to  see  his  mother  alone  before  his  departure  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,  Morton  ;  but  your  absence  will  not  be  very 
long,  will  it  ? " 

"  Forgive  my  importunity,  dear  mother — but  will  yon  dismiss 
your  attendants  ?  " 

"If  you  wish  it,  certainly;  but  I  dislike  feeling  alone, 
especially  in  these  large  rooms  ;  nor  do  I  think  our  being  un- 
attended quite  consistent  with  our  rank  ;  however,  I  never  con  ^ 
tradict  you,  my  son,"  and  the  Countess  directed  her  women  to 
wait  in  the  anteroom. 

"Well,  Morton,  what  is  your  wish?  " 

,"  Only  to  bid  you  farewell,  and  to  ask  if  London  con- 
tains nothing  which  you  will  commission  me  to  obtain  for 
you !  " 

The  Countess  again  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work. — **  I  am 
greatly  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  son  ;  this  is  a  very  delicate 
attention  on  your  part.  I  am  informed  that  stomachers  are 
worn  a  thought  less  pointed  than  they  were.     I  care  not,  you 


BEVEREUX.  83 

well  know,  for  such  vanities  ;  but  respect  for  the  memory  of 
your  illustrious  father  renders  me  desirous  to  retain  a  seemly 
■appearance  to  the  world,  and  my  women  shall  give  you  written 
instructions  thereon  to  Madame  Tourville — she  lives  in  St. 
James's  Street,  and  is  the  only  person  to  be  employed  in  these 
matters.  She  is  a  woman  who  has  known  misfortune,  and 
appreciates  the  sorrowful  and  subdued  tastes  of  those  whom 
an  exalted  station  has  not  preserved  from  like  afflictions. — So, 
you  go  to-morrow — will  you  get  me  the  scissors,  they  are  on 
the  ivory  table,  yonder  ? — When  do  you  return  ? " 

"  Perhaps  never  !  "  said  I  abruptly. 

**  Never,  Morton  ;  how  singular — why?" 

"  I  may  join  the  army-^-and  be  killed." 

"  I  hope  not. — Dear,  how  cold  it  is — will  you  shut  the  win- 
dow ? — pray  forgive  my  troubling  you,  but  you  would  send 
'away  the  women. — Join  the  army,  you  say? — it  is  a  very  dan- 
gerous profession — your  poor  father  might  be  alive  now  but  for 
"having  embraced  it ;  nevertheless,  in  a  righteous  cause,  under 
the  Lord  of  Hosts,  there  is  great  glory  to  be  obtained  beneath 
its  banners.  Alas,  however,  for  its  private  evils  !  alas,  for  the 
orphan  and  the  widow  ! — -You  will  be  sure,  my  dear  son,  to  give 
the  note  to  Madame  Tourville  herself  ?  her  assistants  have  not 
her  knowledge  of  my  misfortunes,  nor  indeed  of  my  exact  pro- 
portions ;  and  at  my  age,  and  in  my  desolate  state,  I  would  fain 
be  decorous  in  these  things — and  that  reminds  me  of  dinner. 
Have  you  aught  else  to  say,  Morton  ?  " 

"Yes  !"  said  I,  suppressing  my  emotions — "yes,  mother!  do 
bestow  on  me  one  warm  wish,  one  kind  word,  before  we  part- 
see— I  kneel  for  your  blessing — will  you  not  give  it  me?" 

*'  Bless  you,  my  child — bless  you  !  look  you  now — I  have  dropt 
my  needle  ! " 

I  rose  hastily — bowed  profoundly — (my  mother  returned  the 
courtesy  with  the  grace  peculiar  to  herself) — and  withdrew.  I 
hurried  into  the  great  drawing-room — found  Lady  Needleham 
alone — rushed  out  in  despair— encountered  the  Lady  Hasselton, 
and  coquetted  with  her  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Vain  hope  !  to 
forget  one's  real  feelings  by  pretending  those  one  never  felt ! 

The  next  morning,  then,  after  suitable  adieux  to  all  (Gerald 
excepted)  whom  I  left  behind — after  some  tears  too  from  my 
uncle,  which,  had  it  not  been  for  the  presence  of  the  Lady  Has- 
selton, I  could  have  returned  with  interest — and  after  a  long 
caress  to  his  dog  Ponto,  which  now,  in  parting  with  that  dear 
old  man,  seemed  to  me  as  dog  never  seemed  before,  I  hurried 
into  the  Beauty's  carriage,  bade  farewell  forever  to  the  Rubicon 


84  bEVEREtJX. 

of  Life,  and  commenced  my  career  of  manhood  and  citizenship 
by  learning,  under  the  tuition  of  the  prettiest  coquette  of  her 
time,  the  dignified  duties  of  a  Court  Gallant  and  a  Town  Beau. 


BOOK    II. 

CHAPTER    I. 

The  Hero  in  London — ^Pleasure  is  often  the  Shortest,  as  it  is  the  Earliest 
Road  to  Wisdom,  and  we  may  say  of  the  World  what  Zeal-of-the-Land- 
Eusy  says  of  the  Pig-Booth,  "  We  Escape  so  much  of  the  Other  Vanities 
by  our  Early  Entering." 

It  had,  when  I  first  went  to  town,  just  become  the  fashion  for 
young  men  of  fortune  to  keep  house,  and  to  give  their  bachelor 
establishments  the  importance  hitherto  reserved  for  the  house- 
hold of  a  Benedict. 

Let  the  reader  figure  to  himself  a  suite  of  apartments  mag- 
nificently furnished,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  court.  An  anteroom 
is  crowded  with  divers  persons,  all  messengers  in  the  various  ne- 
gotiations of  pleasure.  There,  a  French  valet — that  inestimable 
valet,  Jean  Desmarais — sitting  over  a  small  fire,  was  watching  the 
operations  of  a  coffee-pot,  and  conversing,  in  a  mutilated  attempt 
at  the  language  of  our  nation,  though  with  the  enviable  fluency 
of  his  own,  with  the  various  loiterers  who  were  beguiling  the 
hours  they  were  obliged  to  wait  for  an  audience  of  the  master 
himself,  by  laughing  at  the  master's  Gallic  representative.  There 
stood  a  tailor  with  his  books  of  patterns  just  imported  from 
Paris — that  modern  Prometheus,  who  makes  man  what  he  is  ! 
Next  to  him  a  tall,  gaunt  fellow,  in  a  coat  covered  with  tarnished 
lace,  a  night-cap  wig,  and  a  large  whip  in  his  hands,  comes  to 
vouch  for  the  pedigree  and  excellence  of  the  three  horses  he  in- 
tends to  dispose  of,  out  of  pure  love  and  amity  for  the  buyer. 
By  the  window  stood  a  thin,  starveling  poet,  who,  like  the  gram- 
marian of  Cos,  might  have  put  lead  in  his  pockets  to  prevent 
being  blown  away,  had  he  not,  with  a  more  paternal  precaution, 
put  so  much  in  his  works  that  he  had  left  none  to  spare.  Ex- 
cellent trick  of  the  times,  when  ten  guineas  can  purchase  every 
virtue  under  the  sun,  and  when  an  author  thinks  to  vindicate 
the  sins  of  his  book  by  proving  the  admirable  qualities  of  the 
paragon  to  whom  it  is  dedicated.*     There,  with  an  air  of  su« 

.  ♦  Thank  Heaven,  for  the  honor  of  literature,  noMS  (tvoHS  (han^  tout  ctlal — £o. 


btVEREUX.  §5 

percillous  contempt  upon  his  smooth  clietks,  a  page,  in  purple 
and  silver,  sat  upon  the  table,  swinging  his  legs  to  and  fro,  and 
big  with  all  the  reflected  importance  of  a  billet-doux.  There 
stood  the  pert  haberdasher,  with  his  box  of  silver-fringed  gloves, 
and  lace  which  Diana  might  have  worn.  At  that  time  there  was 
indeed  no  enemy  to  female  chastity  like  the  former  article  of 
man-millinery — the  delicate  whiteness  of  the  glove,  the  starry 
splendor  of  the  fringe,  were  irresistible,  and  the  fair  Adorna, 
in  poor  Lee's  tragedy  of  Ccesar  Borgia,  is  far  from  the  only 
lady  who  has  been  killed  by  a  pair  of  gloves. 

Next  to  the  haberdasher,  dingy  and  dull  of  aspect,  a  book- 
hunter  bent  beneath  the  load  of  old  works  gathered  from  stall 
and  shed,  and  about  to  be  re-sold  according  to  the  price  ex- 
acted from  all  literary  gallants,  who  affect  to  unite  the  fine  gentle- 
man with  the  profound  scholar.  A  little  girl,  whose  brazen 
face  and  voluble  tongue  betrayed  the  growth  of  her  intellect- 
ual faculties,  leant  against  the  wainscot,  and  repeated,  in  the 
anteroom,  the  tart  repartees  which  her  mistress  (the  most  cele- 
brated actress  of  the  day)  uttered  on  the  stage  ;  while  a  stout, 
sturdy,  bull-headed  gentleman,  in  a  gray  surlout  and  a  black 
wig,  mingled  with  the  various  voices  of  the  motley  group  the 
gentle  phrases  of  Hockley  in  the  Hole,  from  which  place  of 
polite  merriment  he  came  charged  with  a  message  of  invitation. 
While  such  were  the  inmates  of  the  anteroom,  what  picture  shall 
we  draw  of  the  salon  and  its  occupant  ? 

A  table  was  covered  with  books,  a  couple  of  fencing  foils,  a 
woman's  mask,  and  a  profusion  of  letters;  a  scarlet  cloak,  richly 
laced,  hung  over,  trailing  on  the  ground.  Upon  a  slab  of  mar- 
ble lay  a  hat,  looped  with  diamonds,  a  sword,  and  a  lady's  lute. 
Extended  upon  a  sofa,  loosely  robed  in  a  dressing  gown  of  black 
velvet,  his  shirt  collar  unbuttoned,  his  stockings  ungarlered, 
his  own  hair  (undressed  and  released  for  a  brief  interval  from 
the  false  locks  universally  worn)  waving  from  his  forehead  in 
short  yet  dishevelled  curls,  his  whole  appearance  stamped  with 
the  morning  negligence  which  usually  follows  midnight  dissi- 
pation, lay  a  young  man  of  about  nineteen  years.  His  features 
were  neither  handsome  nor  ill-favored,  and  his  stature  was  small, 
slight,  and  somewhat  insignificant,  but  not,  perhaps,  ill-formed 
either  for  active  enterprise  or  for  muscular  effort.  Such,  reader, 
is  the  picture  of  the  young  prodigal  who  occupied  the  apart- 
ments I  have  described,  and  such  (though  somewhat  flattered 
by  partiality)  is  a  portrait  of  Morton  Devereux,  six  months  after 
his  arrival  in  town. 

The  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  with  that  unhesitating 


86  devereUJC. 

rudeness  by  which  our  friends  think  it  necessary  to  signify  the 
extent  of  their  familiarity;  and  a  young  man  of  about  eight-and- 
tvventy,  richly  dressed,  and  of  a  countenance  in  which  a  dissipated 
nonchalance  and  an  aristocratic  hauteur  seemed  to  struggle  for 
mastery,  abruptly  entered. 

"  What!  ho,  my  noble  royster,"  cried  he,  flinging  himself  upon 
a  chair — "still  suffering  from  St.  John's  Burgundy  I  Fie,  fie 
upon  your  apprenticeship  !— why,  before  I  had  served  half  your 
time,  I  could  take  my  three  bottles  as  easily  as  the  sea  took  the 
good  ship  *  Revolution,' — swallow  them  down  with  a  gulp,  and 
never  show  the  least  sign  of  them  the  next  morning  !" 

"I  readily  believe  you, most  magnanimous  Tarleton.  Provi- 
dence gives  to  each  of  its  creatures  different  favors — to  one 
wit — to  the  other  a  capacity  for  drinking.  A  thousand  pities 
that  they  are  never  united  !  "  ' . 

"So  bitter.  Count ! — ah,  what  will  ever  cure  you  of  sarcasm?" 

"A  wise  man  by  conversion,  or  fools  by  satiety." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  that  is  witty  enough,  but  I  never  admire 
fine  things  of  a  morning.  I  like  letting  my  faculties  live  till 
night  in  a  deshabille — let  us  talk  easily  and  sillily  of  the  affairs 
of  the  day.  Imprimis,  will  you  stroll  to  the  New  Exchange? — 
there  is  a  black  eye  there  that  measures  out  ribbons,  and  my 
green  ones  long  to  flirt  with  it." 

"  With  all  my  heart — and  in  return  you  shall  accompany  me 
to  Master.  Powell's  puppet  show." 

"You  speak  as  wisely  as  Solomon  himself  in  the  puppet-show. 
1  own  that  I  love  that  sight ;  'tis  a  pleasure  to  the  littleness  of 
human  nature  to  see  great  things  abased  by  mimicry — kings 
moved  by  bobbins,  and  the  pomps  of  the  earth  personated  by 
Punch." 

"  But  how  do  you  like  sharing  the  mirth  of  the  groundlings, 
the  filthy  plebeians,  and  letting  them  see  how  petty  are  those 
distinctions  which  you  value  so  highly,  by  showing  them  how 
heartily  you  can  laugh  at  such  distinctions  yourself  ?  Allow,  my 
superb  Coriolanus,  that  one  purchases  pride  by  the  loss  of  con- 
sistency." 

"  Ah,  Devereux,  you  poison  my  enjoyment  by  the  mere  word 
'plebeian  ! '  Oh,  what  a  beastly  thing  is  a  common  person  ! — a 
shape  of  the  trodden  clay  without  any  alloy — a  compound  of 
dirty  clothes— bacon  breaths,  villainous  snjells,  beggarly  coward- 
ice, and  cattish  ferocity. — Pah,  Devereux!  rub  civet  on  the  very 
thought!"  .V,  : 

"Yet  they  will  laugh  to-day  at  the  same  things  you  will,  and 
'consequently  there  would  be  a  most  flattering  congeniality  be* 


DEVEREUX.  87 

tween  you.  Emotion,  whether  of  ridicule,  anger,  or  sorrow — ■ 
whether  raised  at  a  puppet-show,  a  funeral,  or  a  battle — is  your 
grandest  of  levellers.  The  man  who  would  be  always  superior 
should  be  always  apathetic." 

"Oracular,  as  usual,  Count, — but,  hark! — the  clock  gives 
tongue.     One,  by  the  Lord  ! — will  you  not  dress  ? " 

And  I  rose  and  dressed.  We  passed  through  the  anteroom, 
my  attendant  assistants  in  the  art  of  wasting  money  drew  up  in 
a  row. 

"  Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  said  I,  (*  Gentlemen,  indeed! '  cried 
Tarleton,)  "  for  keeping  you  so  long.  Mr.  Snivelship,  your 
waistcoats  are  exquisite — favor  me  by  conversing  with  my  valet 
on  the  width  of  the  lace  for  my  liveries — he  has  my  instruc- 
tions. Mr.  Jockleton,  your  horses  shall  be  tried  to-morrow  at 
one.  Ay,  Mr.  Rymer,  I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons — I  beseech 
you  to  forgive  the  ignorance  of  my  rascals  in  suffering  a  gentle- 
man of  your  merit  to  remain  for  a  moment  unattended  to.  I 
have  read  your  ode — it  is  splendid — the  ease  of  Horace,  with 
the  fire  of  Pindar — your  Pegasus  never  touches  the  earth, 
and  yet  in  his  wildest  excesses  you  curb  him  with  equal  grace 
and  facility — I  object,  sir,  only  to  your  dedication — it  is  too 
flattering." 

"By  no  means,  my  Lord  Count,  it  fits  you  to  a  hair." 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  I,  "  and  allow  me  to  transfer  the 
honor  to  Lord  Halifax — he  loves  men  of  merit — he  loves  also 
their  dedications.  I  will  mention  it  to  him  to-morrow — every- 
thing you  say  of  me  will  suit  him  exactly.  You  will  oblige  me 
with  a  copy  of  your  poem  directly  it  is  printed,  and  suffer  me 
to  pay  your  bookseller  for  it  now,  and  through  your  friendly 
mediation  ;  adieu  !  " 

"Oh,  Count,  this  is  too  generous." 

"  A  letter  for  me,  my  pretty  page  ?  Ah  !  tell  her  ladyship  I 
shall  wait  upon  her  commands  at  Powell's — time  will  move  with 
a  tortoise  speed  till  I  kiss  her  hands.  Mr.  Fribbleden,  your 
gloves  would  fit  the  giants  at  Guildhall — my  valet  will  furnish 
you  with  my  exact  size — you  will  see  to  the  legitimate  breadth  of 
the  fringe.  My  little  beauty,  you  are  from  Mrs.  Bracegirdle — 
the  play  shall  succeed — I  have  taken  seven  boxes — Mr.  St.  John 
promises  his  influence.  Say,  therefore,  my  Hebe,  that  the  thing 
is  certain,  and  let  me  kiss  thee, — thou  hast  dew  on  thy  lip  already, 
Mr.  Thumpem,  you  are  a  fine  fellow,  and  deserve  to  be  encour- 
aged ;  I  will  see  that  the  next  time  your  head  is  broken  it  shall 
be  broken  fairly;  but  I  will  not  patronize  the  bear — consider 
that  peremptory.     What,   Mr,  Bookworm  again !    1  hope  you 


88  DEVEREUX. 

have  succeeded  better  this  time — the  old  songs  had  an  autumn 
fit  upon  them,  and  had  lost  the  best  part  of  their  leaves — and 
Plato  had  mortgaged  one-half  his  republic,  to  pay,  I  suppose, 
the  exorbitant  sum  you  thought  proper  to  set  upon  the  other. 
As  for  Diogenes  Laertius,  and  his  philosophers — " 

"Pish!"  interrupted  Tarleton  ;  "  are  you  going,  by  your 
theoretical  treatises  on  philosophy,  to  make  me  learn  the  practical 
part  of  it,  and  prate  upon  learning  while  I  am  supporting  myself 
with  patience  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me  !  Mr.  BooTcworm — you  will  deposit  your  load, 
and  visit  me  to-morrow  at  an  earlier  hour.  And  now,  Tarleton, 
I  am  at  your  service." 


CHAPTER  II. 

Gay  Scenes  and  Conversations — The   New  Exchange   and  the   Puppet- 
show — The  Actor,  the  Sexton,  and   the  Beauty. 

"  Well,  Tarleton,"  said  I,  looking  round  that  mart  of  millinery 
and  love-making,  which,  so  celebrated  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II., 
still  preserved  the  shadow  of  its  old  renown  in  that  of  Anne- — 
"  well,  here  we  are  upon  the  classical  ground  so  often  com- 
memorated in  the  comedies  which  our  chaste  grandmothers 
thronged  to  see.  Here  we  can  make  appointments,  while  we 
profess  to  buy  gloves,  and  should  our  mistress  tarry  too  long, 
beguile  our  impatience  by  a  flirtation  with  her  milliner.  Is  there 
not  a  breathing  air  of  gaiety  about  the  place  ? — does  it  not  still 
smack  of  the  Ethereges  and  Sedleys  ?" 

"  Right,"  Said  Tarleton,  leaning  over  a  counter  and  amorously 
eyeing  the  pretty  coquette  to  whom  it  belonged — while,  with  the 
coxcombry  then  in  fashion,  he  sprinkled  the  long  curls  that 
touched  his  shoulders  with  a  fragrant  shower  from  a  bottle  of 
jessamine  water  upon  the  counter — "  right ;  saw  you  ever  such 
an  eye  ?  Have  you  snuff  of  the  true  scent,  my  beauty  ? — foh  ! — 
this  is  for  the  nostril  of  a  Welsh  parson — choleric  and  hot,  my 
beauty — pulverized  horseradish — why,  it  would  make  a  nose  of 
the  coldest  constitution  imaginable  sneeze  like  a  washed  school- 
boy on  a  Saturday  night.  Ah,  this  is  better,  my  princess — there  is 
some  courtesy  in  this  snuff— it  flatters  the  brain  like  a  poet's 
dedication.  Right,  Devereux, right,  there  is  something  infectious 
in  the  atmosphere  ;  one  catches  good-humor  as  easily  as  if  it 
were  cold.  Shall  we  stroll  on  ? — my  Clelia  is  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Exchange. — You  were  speaking  of  the  play  writers — what 
a  pity  that  our  Ethereges  and  Wycherleys  should  be  so  frank  in 


DEVEREUX,  89 

their  gallantry,  that  the  prudish  public  already  begins  to  look 
shy  on  them. — They  have  a  world  of  wit ! " 

"Ay,"  said  I ;  "  and,  as  my  good  uncle  would  say,  a  world  of 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  viz.,  of  the  worst  part  of  it.  But 
they  are  worse  than  merely  licentious — they  are  positively  villain- 
ous— pregnant  with  the  most  redemptionless  scoundrelis?n, — 
cheating,  lying,  thieving,  arid  fraud ;  their  humor  debauches 
the  whole  moral  system — they  are  like  the  Sardinian  herb — they 
make  you  laugh,  it  is  true — but  they  poison  you  in  the  act.  But 
who  comes  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  honest  Coll ! — Ah,  Gibber,  how  goes  it  with  you  ?" 

The  person  thus  addressed  was  a  man  of  about  the  middle 
age — very  grotesquely  attired — and  with  a  periwig  preposter- 
ously long.  His  countenance  (which,  in  its  features,  was  rather 
comely)  was  stamped  with  an  odd  mixture  of  liveliness,  im- 
pudence, and  a  coarse,yet  not  unjoyous  spirit  of  reckless  debauch- 
ery. He  approached  us  with  a  saunter,  and  saluted  Tarleton 
with  an  air  servile  enough,  in  spite  of  an  affected  familiarity. 

"  What  think  you,"  resumed  my  companion,  "  we  were  con- 
versing upon?" 

"Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Tarleton,"  answered  Gibber,  bowing  very 
low,  "  unless  it  were  the  exquisite  fashion  of  your  waistcoat  or 
your  success  with  my  Lady  Duchess,  I  know  not  what  to  guess." 
'^'  Pooh,  man,"  said  Tarleton  haughtily,  "  none  of  your  com- 
pliments;" and  then  added,  in  a  milder  tone,  "No,  Golley, 
we  were  abusing  immoralities  that  existed  on  the  stage,  until 
thou,  by  the  light  of  thy  virtuous  example,  didst  undertake  to 
reform  it." 

"  Wliy,"  rejoined  Gibber,  with  an  air  of  mock  sanctity, "  Heaven 
be  praised,  1  have  pulled  out  some  of  the  weeds  from  our  theatrical 
parterre — " 

"  Hear  you  that,  Gount  ?  Does  he  not  look  a  pretty  fellow  for 
a  censor  ?" 

"  Surely,"  said  Gibber,  "  ever  since  Dicky  Steele  has  set  up 
for  a  saint,  and  assumed  the  methodistical  twang,  some  hopes 
of  conversion  may  be  left  even  for  such  reprobates  as  myself. 
Where,  may  I  ask,  will  Mr.  Tarleton  drink  to-night?" 

"  Not  with  thee,  Goll.     The  Saturnalia  don't  happen  every 
day.     Rid  us  now  of  thy  company;  but  stop,  I  will  do  thee  a 
pleasure — know  you  this  gentleman?" 
I  have  not  that  extreme  honor." 

"  Know  a  Gount,  then  !  Gount  Devereux,  demean  yourself 
by  sometimes  acknowledging  Golley  Gibber,  a  rare  fellow  at  a 
song,  a  bottle,  and  a  message  to  an  actress  ;  a  lively  rascal  enough, 


9° 


DEVEREUX. 


but  without  the  goodness  to  be  loved  or  the  independence  to  be 
respected." 

"  Mr.  Gibber,"  said  I,  rather  hurt  at  Tarleton's  speech,  though 
the  object  of  it  seemed  to  hear  this  description  with  the  most 
unruffled  composure — **  Mr.  Gibber,  I  am  happy,  and  proud  of  an 
introduction  to  the  author  of  the  'Gareless  Husband.'  Here  is 
my  address  ;  oblige  me  with  a  visit  at  your  leisure." 

"  How  could  you  be  so  galling  to  the  poor  devil?"  said  I, 
when  Gibber,  with  a  profusion  of  bows  and  compliments,  had 
left  us  to  ourselves. 

"  Ah,  hang  him — a  low  fellow,  who  pins  all  his  happiness  to 
the  skirts  of  the  quality,  is  proud  of  being  despised,  and  that 
which  would  excruciate  the  vanity  of  others  only  flatters  his.  And 
now  for  my  Glelia." 

After  my  companion  had  amused  himself  with  a  brief  flirtation 
with  a  young  lady  who  affected  a  most  edifying  demureness,  we 
left  the  Exchange,  and  repaired  to  the  Puppet-show. 

On  entering  the  Piazza,  in  which,  as  I  am  writing  for  the  next 
century,  it  may  be  necessary  to  say  that  Punch  held  his  court,  we 
saw  a  tall,  thin  fellow  loitering  under  the  columns,  and  exhibit- 
ing a  countenance  of  the  most  ludicrous  discontent.  There 
was  an  insolent  arrogance  about  Tarleton's  good-nature  which 
always  led  him  to  consult  the  whim  of  the  moment  at  the  expense 
of  every  other  consideration,  especially  if  the  whim  referred  to  a 
member  of  the  canaille  ;  whom  my  aristocratic  friend  esteemed 
as  a  base  part  of  the  exclusive  and  despotic  property  of  gentlemen. 

"Egad,  Devereux,"  said  he,  *'  do  you  see  that  fellow?  he  has 
the  audacity  to  affect  spleen.  Faith,  I  thought  melancholy 
was  the  distinguishing  patent  of  nobility — we  will  smoke  him." 
And,  advancing  towards  the  man  of  gloom,  Tarleton  touched 
him  with  the  end  of  his  cane.  The  man  started  and  turned 
round.  "Pray,  sirrah,"  said  Tarleton  coldly,  "pray  who  the 
devil  are  you,  that  you  presume  to  look  discontented  ? " 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  the  man,  good-humoredly  enough,  "  I  have 
some  right  to  be  angry," 

"  I  doubt  it,  my  friend,"  said  Tarleton,  "What  is  your  com- 
plaint? a  rise  in  the  price  of  tripe,  or  a  drinking  wife  ?  those, 
I  take  it,  are  the  sole  misfortunes  incidental  to  your  condition." 

"  If  that  be  the  case,"  said  I,  observing  a  cloud  on  our  new 
friend's  brow,  "shall  we  heal  thy  sufferings?  Tell  us  thy  com- 
plaints, and  we  will  prescribe  thee  a  silver  specific  ;  there  is  a 
sample  of  our  skill." 

"Thank  you  humbly,  gentlemen,"  said  the  man,  pocketing 
the  money,  and  clearing  his  countenance;  "  and,  seriously,  mine 


DEVEREUX.  91 

is  an  uncommonly  hard  case.  I  was,  till  within  the  last  few 
weeks,  the  under-sexton  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden,  and  my 
duty  was  that  of  ringing  the  bells  for  daily  prayers :  but  a  man 
of  Belial  came  hitherwards,  set  up  a  puppet-show,  and, 
timing  the  hours  of  his  exhibition  with  a  wicked  sagacity,  made 
the  bell  I  rang  for  church  serve  as  a  summons  to  Punch, — so, 
gentlemen,  that  whenever  your  humble  servant  began  to  pull 
for  the  Lord,  his  perverted  congregation  began  to  flock  to  the 
devil  ;  and,  instead  of  being  an  instrument  for  saving  souls,  I 
was  made  the  innocent  means  of  destroying  them.  Oh,  gen- 
tlemen, it  was  a  shocking  thing  to  tug  away  at  the  rope  till  the 
sweat  ran  down  one,  for  four  shillings  a  week  ;  and  to  see  all 
the  time  that  one  was  thinning  one's  own  congregation,  and 
emptying  one's  own  pockets  ! " 

"  It  was  indeed  a  lamentable  dilemma ;  and  what  did  you, 
Mr.  Sexton  .>" 

.  '  ■  Do,  sir  ?  why,  I  could  not  stifle  my  conscience,  and  I  left 
my  place.  Ever  since  then,  sir,  I  have  stationed  myself  in  the 
piazza,  to  warn  my  poor,  deluded  fellow-creatures  of  their  error, 
and  to  assure  them  that  when  the  bell  of  St.  Paul's  rings,  it 
rings  for  prayers,  and  not  for  puppet-shows — and.  Lord  help 
us,  there  it  goes  at  this  very  moment  ;  and  look,  look,  gentle- 
men, how  the  wigs  and  hoods  are  crowding  to  the  motion* 
instead  of  the  minister." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  cried  Tarleton,  "  Mr.  Powell  is  not  the  first 
man  who  has  wrested  things  holy  to  serve  a  carnal  purpose, 
and  made  use  of  church  bells  in  order  to  ring  money  to  the 
wide  pouch  of  the  church's  enemies.  Harkye,  my  friend,  fol- 
low my  advice,  and  turn  preacher  yourself  ;  mount  a  cart  oppo- 
site to  the  motion,  and  I'll  wager  a  trifle  that  the  crowd  forsake 
the  theatrical  mountebank  in  favor  of  the  religious  one  ;  for  the 
more  sacred  the  thing  played  upon,  the  more  certain  is  the  game." 

"  Body  of  me,  gentlemen,"  cried  the  ex-sexton,  "  I'll  follow 
your  advice." 

"  Do  so,  man,  and  never  presume  to  look  doleful  again  ; 
leave  dulness  to  your  superiors."! 

And  with  this  advice,  and  an  additional  compensation  for  his 
confidence,  we  left  the  innocent  assistant  of  Mr.  Powell,  and 
marched  into  the  puppet-show,  by  the  sound  of  the  very  bells 
the  perversion  of  which  the  good  sexton  had  so  pathetically 
lamented. 

The  first  person  I  saw  at  the  show,  and  indeed  the  express 

♦  An  antiquated  word  in  use  for  puppet-shows. 
t  See  Spectator,  No.  14,  for  a  letter  from  this  unfortunate  under-sexton. 


92  DEVEREUX. 

person  I  came  to  see,  was  the  Lady  Hasselton.  Tarleton  and 
myself  separated  for  the  present,  and  I  repaired  to  the  coquette: 
"Angels  of  grace  !  "  said  I,  approaching  ;  "  and,  by-the-by,  be- 
fore I  proceed  another  word,  observe.  Lady  Hasselton,  how 
appropriate  the  exclamation  is  to  you  !  Angels  of  grace  !  why, 
you  have  moved  all  your  patches  !— one — two — three — six — 
eight — as  I  am  a  gentleman,  from  the  left  side  of  your  cheek  to 
the  right !     What  is  the  reason  of  so  sudden  an  emigration?" 

"  I  have  changed  my  politics,*  Count,  that  is  all,  and  have 
resolved  to  lose  no  time  in  proclaiming  the  change.  But  is  it 
true  that  you  are  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Married  !  Heaven  forbid  !  which  of  my  enemies  spread  so 
cruel  a  report  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  report  is  universal ! "  and  the  Lady  Hasselton  flirted 
her  fan  with  a  most  flattering  violence. 

"  It  is  false,  nevertheless  ;  I  cannot  afford  to  buy  a  wife  at 
present,  for,  thanks  to  jointures,  and  pin-money,  these  things 
are  all  matter  of  commerce  ;  and  (see  how  closely  civilized  life 
resembles  the  savage  !)  the  English,  like  the  Tartar  gentleman, 
obtains  his  wife  only  by  purchase  !     But  who  is  the  bride  ? " 

"  The  Duke  of  Newcastle's  rich  daughter,  Lady  Henrietta 
Pelham." 

"  What,  Harley's  object  of  ambition  !  f  Faith,  madam,  the 
report  is  not  so  cruel  as  I  thought  for  !" 

"  Oh,  you  fop  ! — but  is  it  not  true  ?  " 

"  By  my  honor,  I  fear  not  ;  my  rivals  are  too  numerous  and 
too  powerful.  Look  now,  yonder  !  how  they  already  flock  around 
the  illustrious  heiress, — note  those  smiles  and  simpers.  Is  it  not 
pretty  to  see  those  very  fine  gentlemen  imitating  bumpkins  at 
a  fair,  and  grinning  their  best  for  a  gold  ring  !  But  you  need 
not  fear  me.  Lady  Hasselton,  my  love  cannot  wander,  if  it 
would.  In  the  quaint  thought  of  Sidney,^  love  having  once 
flown  to  my  heart,  burnt  its  wings  there,  and  cannot  fly  away." 

"  La,  you  now  !  "  said  the  beauty  ;  "  I  do  not  comprehend 
you  exactly — your  master  of  the  graces  does  not  teach  you 
your  compliments  properly." 

"  Yes,  he  does,  but  in  your  presence  I  forget  them  ;  and 
now,"  I  added,  lowering  my  voice  into  the  lowest  of  whispers, 
"  now  that  you  are  assured  of  my  fidelity,  will  you  not  learn  at 
last  to  discredit  rumors  and  trust  to  me  ?" 

*  Whig  ladies  patched  on  one  side  of  the  cheek,  Tories  on  the  other. 

t  Lord  Bolingbroke  tells  us  that  it  was  the  main  end  of  Harley's  administration  to  marry 
his  son  to  this  lady.  Thus  is  the  fate  of  nations  a  bundle  made  up  of  a  thousand  little 
private  schemes. 

\  In  the  Arcadia,  that  museum  of  oddities  and  beauties. 


DEVEREUX.  93 

"  I  love  you  too  well !  "  answered  the  Lady  Hasselton  in  the 
same  tone,  and  that  answer  gives  an  admirable  idea  of  the  af- 
fection of  every  coquette  ! — love  and  confidence  with  them  are 
qualities  that  have  a  natural  antipathy,  and  can  never  be  united  ! 
Our  tite-a-tete  was  at  an  end,  the  people  round  us  became  social, 
and  conversation  general. 

"  Betterton  acts  to-morrow  night,"  cried  the  Lady  Patterly, 
"we  must  go  !" 

"  We  must  go,"  cried  the  Lady  Hasselton. 

"  We  must  go  !  "  cried  all. 

And  so  passed  the  time  till  the  puppet-show  was  over,  and 
my  attendance  dispensed  with. 

It  is  a  charming  thing  to  be  the  lover  of  a  lady  of  the  mode  ! 
One  so  honored  does  with  his  hours  as  a  miser  with  his  gui- 
neas,— viz.,  nothing  but  count  them  ! 


CHAPTER  in. 
More  Lions. 

The  next  night,  after'the  theatre,  Tarleton  and  I  strolled  into 
Wills's.  Half  a  dozen  wits  were  assembled.  Heavens  !  how 
they  talked  !  actors,  actresses,  poets,  statesmen,  philosophers, 
critics,  divines,  were  all  pulled  to  pieces  with  the  most  grati- 
fying malice  imaginable.  We  sat  ourselves  down,  and  while 
Tarleton  amused  himself  with  a  dish  of  coffee  and  the  "  Flying 
Post,"  I  listened  very  attentively  to  the  conversation.  Certainly 
if  we  would  take  every  opportunity  of  getting  a  grain  or  two 
of  knowledge,  we  should  soon  have  a  chest-full ;  a  man  earned 
an  excellent  subsistence  by  asking  every  one  who  came  out  of 
a  tobacconist's  shop  for  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  retailing  the 
mixture  as  soon  as  he  had  filled  his  box.* 

While  I  was  listening  to  a  tall,  lusty  gentleman,  who  was 
abusing  Dogget,  the  actor,  a  well-dressed  man  entered,  and 
immediately  attracted  the  general  observation.  He  was  of  a 
very  flat,  ill-favored  countenance,  but  of  a  quick  eye,  and  a 
genteel  air ;  there  was,  however,  something  constrained  and 
artificial  in  his  address,  and  he  appeared  to  be  endeavoring  to 
clothe  a  natural  good-humor  with  a  certain  primness  which 
could  never  be  made  to  fit  it.  ..; 

"  Ha,  Steele  !  "  cried  a  gentleman  in  an  orange-colored  coat, 
who  seemed,  by  a  fashionable  swagger  of  importance,  desirous 

♦  Tatler. 


94  DEVEkEUX. 

of  giving  the  tone  to  the  company — "  Ha,  Steele  !  whence  come 
you  ?  from  the  chapel  or  the  tavern  ?  "  and  the  speaker  winked 
round  the  room  as  if  he  wished  us  to  participate  in  the  pleasure 
of  a  good  thing. 

Mr.  Steele  drew  up,  seemingly  a  little  affronted  ;  but  his 
good-nature  conquered  the  affectation  of  personal  sanctity, 
which,  at  the  time  I  refer  to,  that  excellent  writer  was  pleased 
to  assume  ;  he  contented  himself  with  nodding  to  the  speaker, 
and  saying :  - 

"  All  the  world  knows,  Colonel  Cleland,  that  you  are  a  wit, 
attd  therefore  we  take  your  fine  sayings,  as  we  take  change 
from  an  honest  tradesman, — rest  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
coin  we  get,  without  paying  any  attention  to  it." 

"  Zounds,  Cleland,  you  got  the  worst  of  it  there,"  cried  a 
gentleman  in  a  flaxen  wig.  And  Steele  slid  into  a  seat  near 
my  own. 

Tarleton,  who  was  sufficiently  well  educated  to  pretend  to 
the  character  of  a  man  of  letters,  hereupon  thought  it  necessary 
to  lay  aside  the  "  Flying  Post,"  and  to  introduce  me  to  my  liter- 
ary neighbor. 

"Pray,"  said  Colonel  Cleland,  taking  snuff  and  swinging 
himself  to  and  fro  with  an  air  of  fashionable  grace,  "has  any 
one  seen  the  new  paper  ? " 

"  What ! "  cried  the  gentleman  in  the  flaxen  wig,  "  what !  the 
Tatler's  successor,-^the  '  Spectator  ? ' " 

"The  same,"  quoth  the  colonel. 

*'  To  be  sure — who  has  not  ?  "  returned  he  of  the  flaxen  orna- 
ment.    "  People  say  Congreve  writes  it." 

"  They  are  very  much  mistaken,  then,"  cried  a  little  square 
man  with  spectacles;  "to  my  certain  knowledge  Swift  is  the 
author." 

"Pooh!"  said  Cleland  imperiously — "pooh!  it  is  neither 
one  nor  the  other  ;  I,  gentlemen,  am  in  the  secret — but — you 
take  me,  eh?  One  must  not  speak  well  of  oneself — mum  is  the 
word." 

"  Then,"  asked  Steele  quietly,  "  we  are  to  suppose  that  you, 
Colonel,  are  the  writer?" 

"I  never  said  so,  Dicky;  but  the  women  will  have  it  that  I 
am,"  and  the  colonel  smoothed  down  his  cravat. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Addison,  what  say  you  ?  "  cried  the  gentleman 
in  the  flaxen  wig,  "  are  you  for  Congreve,  Swift,  or  Colonel 
Cleland  ?"  This  was  addressed  to  a  gentleman  of  a  grave,  but 
rather  prepossessing  mien  ;  who,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  was  very  quietly,  and  to  all  appearance  very  inatten- 


DEVEREUX.  95 

lively,  solacing  himself  with  a  pipe  ;  without  lifting  his  eyes, 
this  personage,  then  eminent,  afterwards  rendered  immortal,  re- 
plied— 

**  Colonel  Cleland  must  produce  other  witnesses  to  prove  his 
claim  to  the  authorship  of  the  'Spectator';  the  women,  we 
well  know,  are  prejudiced  in  his  favor." 

"That's  true  enough,  old  friend,"  cried  the  colonel,  looking 
askant  at  his  orange-colored  coat,  "  but  faith,  Addison,  I  wish  you 
would  set  up  a  paper  of  the  same  sort,  d'ye  see  ;  you're  a  nice 
judge  of  merit,  and  your  sketches  of  character  would  do  justice 
to  your  friends." 

"  If  ever  I  do,  Colonel,  I  or  my  coadjutors,  will  study  at  least 
to  do  justice  to  you."* 

"Prithee,  Steele,"  cried  the  stranger  in  spectacles,  **  prithee 
tell  us  thy  thoughts  on  the  subject :  dost  thou  know  the  author 
of. this  droll  periodical?"  .. 

.  ■  "I  saw  him  this  morning,"  replied  Steele  carelessly. 

"  Aha  !  and  what  said  you  to  him  ?  " 

"I  asked  him  his  name  !  " 

"  And  what  did  he  answer  ? "  cried  he  of  the  flaxen  wig, 
while  all  of  us  crowded  round  the  speaker,  with  the  curiosity 
every  one  felt  in  the  authorship  of  a  work  then  exciting  the 
most  universal  and  eager  interest." 

"He  answered  me  solemnly,"  said  Steele  "in  the  following 
words, 

'  Grseci  carent  ablative — Itali  dativo — Ego  nominativo."'f 

"Famous — capital !  "  cried  the  gentleman  in  spectacles  ;  and 
then,  touching  Colonel  Cleland,  added,  "  what  does  it  exactly 
mean  ? " 

"  Ignoramus !"  said  Cleland  disdainfully,  "eyery  school-boy 
knows  Virgil !  " 

"  Devereux,"  said  Tarleton,  yawning,  "  what  a  d — d  delight- 
ful thing  it  is  to  hear  so  much  wit — pity  that  the  atmosphere  is 
so  fine  that  no  lungs  unaccustomed  to  it  can  endure  it  long. 
Let  us  recover  ourselves  by  a  walk." 

"  Willingly,"  said  I ;  and  we  sauntered  forth  into  the  streets. 

"Wills's  is  not  what  it  was,"  said  Tarleton;  "'tis  a  pitiful 
ghost  of  its  former  self,  and  if  they  had  not  introduced  cards, 
one  would  die  of  the  vapors  there." 

"  I  know  nothing  so  insipid,"  said  I,  "as  that  mock  Hterary 
air  which  it  is  so  mvich;  th^  fashion   to  assume.     'Tis  but  a 

*  This  seems  to  corroborate  the  suspicion  entertained  of  the  identity  of  Colonel  Cleland 
*rith  the  Will  Honeycomb  of  the  Spectator. 

t  "  The  Greeks  want  »d  ablative — the  Italians  a  dative — I  a  nominative." 


g6  DEVEREUX.' 

wearisome  relief  to  conversation  to  have  interludes  of  songs 
about  Strephon  and  Sylvia  recited  with  a  lisp  by  a  gentleman 
with  fringed  gloves  and  a  languishing  look," 

"Fie  on  it !  "  cried  Tarleton,  "let  us  seek  for  a  fresher  topic. 
Are  you  asked  to  Abigail  Masham's  to-night,  or  will  you  come 
to  Dame  de  la  Riviere  Manley's  ? " 

"  Dame  de  la  what  ? — in  the  name  of  long  words  who  is 
she?" 

"  Oh  !  Learning  made  libidinous  :  one  who  reads  Catullus 
and  profits  by  it," 

**  Bah,  no,  we  will  not  leave  the  gentle  Abigail  for  her.  I 
have  promised  to  meet  St.  John,  too,  at  the  Mashams." 

"  As  you  like.  We  shall  get  some  wine  at  Abigail's,  which 
"we  should  never  do  at  the  house  of  her  cousin  of  Marlborough." 

And,  comforting  himself  with  this  belief,  Tarleton  peaceably 
accompanied  me  to  that  celebrated  woman,  who  did  the  Tories 
such  notable  service,  at  the  expense  of  being  termed  by  the 
Whigs  one  great  want  divided  into  two  parts,  viz.:  a  great 
want  of  every  shilling  belonging  to  other  people,  and  a  great 
want  of  every  virtue  that  should  have  belonged  to  herself.  As 
we  mounted  the  staircase,  a  door  to  the  left  (a  private  apart- 
ment) was  opened,  and  I  saw  the  favorite  dismiss,  with  the 
most  flattering  air  of  respect,  my  old  preceptor,  the  Abbe  Mon- 
treuil.  He  received  her  attentions  as  his  due,  and,  descending 
the  stairs,  came  full  upon  me.  He  drew  back — changed  neither 
hue  nor  muscle — bowed  civilly  enough,  and  disappeared.  I 
had  not  much  opportunity  to  muse  over  this  circumstance,  for 
St.  John  and  Mr.  Domville — excellent  companions  both — 
joined  us ;  and  the  party  being  small,  we  had  the  unwonted 
felicity  of  talking,  as  well  as  bowing,  to  each  other.  It  was  im- 
possible to  think  of  any  one  else  when  St.  John  chose  to  exert 
himself ;  and  so  even  the  Abb6  Montreuil  glided  out  of  my 
brain  as  St.  John's  wit  glided  into  it.  We  were  all  of  the  same 
way  of  thinking  on  politics,  and  therefore  were  witty  without 
being  quarrelsome — a  rare  thing.  The  trusty  Abigail  told  us 
stories  of  the  good  Queen,  and  we  added  bons-mots  by  way  of 
corollary.  Wine,  too,  wine  that  even  Tarleton  approved,  lit 
up  our  intellects,  and  we  spent  altogether  an  evening  such  as 
gentlemen  and  Tories  very  seldom  have  the  sense  to  enjoy, 

O  Apollo  !  I  wonder  whether  Tories  of  the  next  century 
will  be  such  clever,  charming,  well-informed  fellows  as  we  were! 


DEVEREUX.  97 

CHAPTER  IV. 

An  Intellectual  Adventure. 

A  LITTLE  affected  by  the  vinous  potations  which  had  been 
so  much  an  object  of  anticipation  with  my  companion,  Tarleton 
and  I  were  strolling  homeward  when  we  perceived  a  remarkably 
tall  man  engaged  in  a  contest  with  a  couple  of  watchmen. 
Watchmen  were  in  all  cases  the  especial  and  natural  enemies 
of  the  gallants  in  my  young  days  ;  and  no  sooner  did  we  see 
the  unequal  contest  than,  drawing  our  swords  with  that  true 
English  valor  which  makes  all  the  quarrels  of  other  people  its 
own,  we  hastened  to  the  relief  of  the  w^eaker  party. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  elder  watchman,  drawing  back,  "this 
is  no  common  brawl ;  we  have  been  shamefully  beaten  by  this 
here  madman,  and  for  no  earthly  cause." 

"  Who  ever  did  beat  a  watchman  for  any  earthly  cause,  you 
rascal  ? "  cried  the  accused  party,  swinging  his  walking-canfe 
over  the  complainant's  head  with  a  menacing  air. 

"Very  true,"  cried  Tarleton  coolly.  "Seigneurs  of  the 
watch,  you  are  both  made  and  paid  to  be  beaten  ;  ergo — yOu 
have  no  right  to  complain.  Release  this  worthy  cavalier,  and 
depart  elsewhere  to  make  night  hideous  with  your  voices." 

"Come,  come,"  quoth  the  younger  Dogberry,  who  perceived 
a  reinforcement  approaching,  "move  on,  good  people,  and  let 
us  do  our  duty." 

"Which,"  interrupted  the  elder  watchman,  "consists  in  tak- 
ing this  hulking  swaggerer  to  the  watchhouse." 

"Thou  speakest  wisely,  man  of  peace,"  said  Tarleton  ;  "de- 
fend thyself  ;"  and  without  adding  another  word,  he  ran  the 
watchman  through — not  the  body,  but  the  coat,  avoiding,  with 
great  dexterity,  the  corporeal  substance  of  the  attacked  party, 
and  yet  approaching  it  sO  closely  as  to  give  the  guardian  of  the 
streets  very  reasonable  ground  for  apprehension.  No  sboner 
did  the  watchman  find  the  hilt  strike  against  his  breast,  than 
he  uttered  a  dismal  cry,  and  fell  upon  the  pavement  like 
a  shot.  ' 

"  Now  for  thee,  varlet,"  cried  Tarleton,  brandishing  his 
rapier  before  the  eyes  of  the  other  watchman,  "  tremble  at  the 
sword  of  Gideon."  '     • 

^'0  Lord,  O  Lord  !  "  ejaculated  the  terrified  comrade  of  the 
fallen  man,  dropping  on  his  knees,  "for  Heaven's  sake,  sirj 
have  a  care." 


98  DEVEREUX. 

"  What  argument  canst  thou  allege,  thou  screech-owl  of  the 
metropolis,  that  thou  shouldst  not  share  the  same  fate  as  thy 
brother  owl  ?" 

"Oh,  sir  !  "  cried  the  craven  night-bird  (a  bit  of  a  humorist 
in  its  way),  "because  I  have  a  nest  and  seven  little  owlets  at 
home,  and  t'other  owl  is  only  a  bachelor." 

"  Thou  art  an  impudent  thing  to  jest  at  us,"  said  Tarleton  ; 
"  but  thy  wit  has  saved  thee  ;  rise." 

At  this  moment  two  other  watchmen  came  up. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  tall  stranger  whom  we  had  rescued, 
"we  had  better  fly." 

Tarleton  cast  at  him  a  contemptuous  look,  and  placed  him- 
self in  a  posture  of  offence. 

"  Hark  ye,"  said  I,  "let  us  effect  an  honorable  peace.  Mes- 
sieurs the  watch,  be  it  lawful  for  you  to  carry  off  the  slain,  and 
for  us  to  claim  the  prisoners." 

But  our  new  foes  understood  not  a  jest,  and  advanced  upon 
us  with  a  ferocity  which  might  really  have  terminated  in  a 
serious  engagement,  had  not  the  tall  stranger  thrust  his  bulky 
form  in  front  of  the  approaching  battalion,  and  cried  out,  with 
a  loud  voice,  "  Zounds,  my  good  fellows,  what's  all  this  for  ? 
If  you  take  us  up,  you  will  get  broken  heads  to-night,  and  a 
few  shillings  perhaps  to-morrow.  If  you  leave  us  alone,  you 
will  have  whole  heads,  and  a  guinea  between  you.  Now,  what 
say  you  ?"  . 

Well  spoke  Phaedra  against  the  dangers  of  eloquence  (xa^pt 
Tudv^yoi).  The  watchmen  looked  at  each  other.  "Why 
really,  sir,"  said  one,  "  what  you  say  alters  the  case  very  much; 
and  if  Dick  here  is  not  much  hurt,  I  don't  know  what  we  may 
say  to  the  offer." 

So  saying,  they  raised  the  fallen  watchman,  who,  after  three 
or  four  grunts,  began  slowly  to  recover  himself. 

"  Are  you  dead,  Dick  ?  "  said  the  owl  with  seven  owlets. 

"  I  think  I  am,"  answered  the  other,  groaning. 

"Are  you  able  to  drink,  a  pot  ^f  ale,  Dick  ?"  cried  the  tall 
stranger.  ,  ,,,  t;    .^;      .    j,,; 

"  I  think  I  am,"  reiterated  the  dead  man,  very  lackadaisi- 
cally. And  this  answer  satisfying  his  comrades,  the  articles  of 
peace  were  subscribed  to. 

Now,  then,  the  tall  stranger  began  searching  his  pockets  with 
a  most  consequential  air. 

"  'Gad,  so  ! "  said  he  at  last ;  "  not  in  my  breeches  pocket ! — 
well,  it  must  be  in  my  waistcoat.  No.  Well,  'tis  a  strange 
thing — dsmme  it  is  !     Gentlemen,  I  have  had  the  misfortune 


DEVEREUX.  99 

to  leave  my  purse  behind  me;  add  to  your  other  favors  by  lend- 
ing me  wherewithal  to  satisfy  these  honest  men." 

And  Tarleton  lent  him  the  guinea.  The  watchmen  now 
retired,  and  we  were  left  alone  with  our  portly  ally. 

Placing  his  hand  to  his  heart,  he  made  us  half  a  dozen  pro- 
found bows,  returned  us  thanks  for  our  assistance  in  some  very 
courtly  phrases,  and  requested  us  to  allow  him  to  make  our 
acquaintance.  We  exchanged  cards,  and  departed  on  our 
several  ways. 

"I  have  met  that  gentleman  before,"  said  Tarleton,  "Let 
us  see  what  name  he  pretends  to.  '  Fielding — Fielding' ;  ah, 
by  the  Lord,  it  is  no  less  a  person !  it  is  the  great  Fielding 
himself." 

"  Is  Mr.  Fielding,  then,  as  elevated  in  fame  as  in  stature  ?  " 

"What,  is  it  possible  that  you  have  not  yet  heard  of  Beau 
Fielding,  who  bared  his  bosom  at  the  theatre  in  order  to  attract 
the  admiring  compassion  of  the  female  part  of  the  audience  ? " 

"What!"  I  cried,  "the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's  Fielding?" 

"  The  same  ;  the  best-looking  fellow  of  his  day  !  A  sketch 
of  his  history  is  in  the  'Tatler,'  under  the  name  of  'Orlando 
the  Fair.'  He  is  terribly  fallen  as  to  fortune  since  the  day  when 
he  drove  about  in  a  car  like  a  sea-shell,  with  a  dozen  tall  fellows, 
in  the  Austrian  livery,  black  and  yellow,  running  before  and 
behind  him.  You  know  he  claims  relationship  to  the  house  of 
Hapsburg.  As  for  the  present,  he  writes  poems,  makes  love,  is 
still  good-natured,  humorous,  and  odd  ;  is  rather  unhappily 
addicted  to  wine  and  borrowing,  and  rigidly  keeps  that  oath  of 
the  Carthusians  which  never  suffers  them  to  carry  any  money 
about  them." 

"An  acquaintance  more  likely  to  yield  amusement  than 
profit." 

"  Exactly  so.  He  will  favor  you  with  a  visit — to-morrow, 
perhaps,  and  you  will  remember  his  propensities." 

"Ah  !  who  ever  forgets  a  warning  that  relates  to  his  purse  !" 

"  True  ! "  said  Tarleton,  sighing.  "  Alas  !  my  guinea,  thou 
and  I  have  parted  company  for  ever  !  vale,  vale,  inquit  lolas!" 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Beau  in  his  Den,  and  a  Philosopher  Discovered. 

Mr.  Fielding  having  twice  favored  me  with  visits,  which 
found  me  from  home,  I  thousrht  it  right  to  pay  my  respects  to 
him;  accordingly  one  morning  I  repaired  to  his  abode.     It  was 


loo  DEVEREUX. 

situated  in  a  street  which  had  been  excessively  the  mode  some 
thirty  years  back  ;  and  the  house  still  exhibited  a  stately  and 
somewhat  ostentatious  exterior.  I  observed  a  considerable 
cluster  of  infantine  raggamuffins  collected  round  the  door,  and 
no  sooner  did  the  portal  open  to  my  summons  than  they  pressed 
forward  in  a  manner  infinitely  more  zealous  than  respectful. 
A  servant  in  the  Austrian  livery,  with  a  broad  belt  round  his 
middle,  officiated  as  porter.  "  Look,  look  !  "  cried  one  of  the 
youthful  gazers,  "look  at  the  Beau's  keeper  T'  This  imputation 
on  his  own  respectability,  and  that  of  his  master,  the  domestic 
seemed  by  no  means  to  relish,  for,  muttering  some  maledictory 
menace,  which  I  at  first  took  to  be  German,  but  which  I  after- 
wards found  to  be  Irish,  he  banged  the  door  in  the  faces  of  the 
intrusive  impertinents,  and  said,  in  an  accent  which  suited  very 
ill  with  his  continental  attire, 

"  And  is  it  my  master  you're  wanting,  sir  ? " 

"It  is." 

"And  you  would  be  after  seeing  him  immadiately ? " 

"Rightly  conjectured,  my  sagacious  friend." 

"Fait  then,  your  honor,  my  master's  in  bed  with  a  terribre 
fit  of  the  megrims."  "  : 

"  Then  you  will  favor  me  by  giving  this  card  to  your  master, 
and  expressing  my  sorrow  at  his  indisposition." 

Upon  this  the  orange-colored  lacquey,  very  quietly  reading 
the  address  on  the  card,  and  spelling  letter  by  letter  in  an  audi- 
ble mutter,  rejoined  : 

"C — o — u — (cou)n — t  (unt)  Count,  D — e — v.  Och,  by  my 
shoul,  and  it's  Count  Devereux  after  all,  I'm  thinking?" 

"You  think  with  equal  profoundity  and  truth." 

"You  may  well  say  that,  your  honor.  Stip  in  a  bit — I'll  till 
my  master — it  is  himself  that  will  see  you  in  a  twinkling  ! " 

"But  you  forget  that  your  master  is  ill?"  said  I. 

"  Sorrow  a  bit  for  the  matter  o'  that — my  master  is  never  ill 
to  a  jontleman." 

And  with  this  assurance  "the  Beau's  keeper"  ushered  me  up 
a  splendid  staircase  into  a  large,  dreary,  faded  apartment,  and 
left  me  to  amuse  myself  with  the  curiosities  within,  while  he 
went  to  perform  a  cure  upon  his  master's  "  megrims."  The 
chamber,  suiting  with  the  house  and  the  owner,  looked  like  a 
place  in  the  other  world,  set  apart  for  the  reception  of  the  ghosts 
of  departed  furniture.  The  hangings  were  wan  and  colorless, 
the  chairs  and  sofas  were  most  spiritually  unsubstantial, — the 
mirrors  reflected  all  things  in  a  sepulchral  sea-green  ;  even  a 
huge  picture  of  Mr,  Fielding  himself,  placed  over  the  chimney- 


DEVEREUX.  Ibl 

piece,  seemed  like  the  apparition  of  a  portrait,  so  dim,  watery, 
and  indistinct  had  it  been  rendered  by  neglect  and  damp.  On 
a  huge,  tomb-like  table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  lay  two  pen- 
cilled profiles  of  Mr.  Fielding,  a  pawnbroker's  ticket,  a  pair  of 
ruffles,  a  very  little  muff,  an  immense  broadsword,  aWycherley 
comb,  a  jackboot,  and  an  old  plumed  hat ;  to  these  were  added 
a  cracked  pomatum-pot,  containing  ink,  and  a  scrap  of  paper, 
ornamented  with  sundry  paintings  of  hearts  and  torches,  on 
which  were  scrawled  several  lines  in  a  hand  so  large  and  round 
that  I  could  not  avoid  seeing  the  first  verse,  though  I  turned 
away  my  eyes  as  quickly  as  possible — that  verse,  to  the  best  of 
my  memory,  ran  thus:  "Say,  lovely  Lesbia,  when  thy  swain." 
Upon  the  ground  lay  a  box  of  patches,  a  periwig,  and  two  or 
three  well-thumbed  books  of  songs.  Such  was  the  reception- 
room  of  Beau  Fielding,  one  indifferently  well  calculated  to 
exhibit  the  propensities  of  a  man,  half  bully,  half  fribble ;  a 
poet,  a  fop,  a  fighter,  a  beauty,  a  walking  museum  of  all  odd 
humors,  and  a  living  shadow  of  a  past  renown.  "  There  are 
changes  in  wit  as  in  fashion,"  said  Sir  William  Temple,  and  he 
proceeds  to  instance  a  nobleman,  who  was  the  greatest  wit  of 
the  court  of  Charles  I.,  and  the  greatest  dullard  in  that  of 
Charles  II.*  But  Heavens  !  how  awful  are  the  revolutions  of 
coxcombry !  what  a  change  from  Beau  Fielding  the  Beauty  to 
Beau  Fielding  the  Oddity  ! 

After  I  had  remained  in  this  apartment  about  ten  minutes, 
the  great  man  made  his  appearance.  He  was  attired  in  a 
dressing-gown  of  the  most  gorgeous  material  and  color,  but  so 
old  that  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  any  period  of  past  time 
which  it  might  not  have  been  supposed  to  have  witnessed ;  a 
little  velvet  cap,  with  a  tarnished  gold  tassel,  surmounted  his 
head,  and  his  nether  limbs  were  sheathed  in  a  pair  of  military 
boots.  In  person,  he  still  retained  the  trace  of  that  extra- 
ordinary symmetry  he  had  once  possessed,  and  his  features 
were  yet  handsome,  though  the  complexion  had  grown  coarse 
and  florid,  and  the  expression  had  settled  into  a  broad,  hard, 
farcical  mixture  of  effrontery,  humor,  and  conceit. 

But  how  different  his  costume  from  that  of  old !  Where  was 
the  long  wig  with  its  myriad  curls  ?  the  coat  stiff  with  golden 
lace  ?  the  diamond  buttons — "  the  pomp,  pride,  and  circum- 
stance of  glorious  war  ? "  the  glorious  war  Beau  Fielding  had 
carried  on  throughout  the  female  world — finding  in  every 
saloon  a  Blenheim — in  every  play-house  a  Ramilies?  Alas! 
to  what  abyss  of  fate  will  not  the  love  of  notoriety  bring  men ! 

*  The  Earl  of  Norwich. 


102  DEVEREUX, 

To  what  but  the  lust  of  show  do  we  owe  the  misanthropy  of 
Timon,  or  the  ruin  of  Beau  Fielding  ! 

'*  By  the  Lord  !  "  cried  Mr.  Fielding,  approaching,  and  shak- 
ing me  familiarly  by  the  hand,  "  by  the  Lord,  I  am  delighted 
to  see  thee  !  As  I  am  a  soldier,  I  thought  thou  wert  a  spirit, 
invisible  and  incorporeal — and  as  long  as  I  was  in  that  belief 
I  trembled  for  thy  salvation,  for  I  knew  at  least  that  thou  wert 
not  a  spirit  of  Heaven  ;  since  thy  door  is  the  very  reverse  of 
the  doors  above,  which  we  are  assured  shall  be  opened  unto 
our  knocking.  But  thou  art  early,  Count  ;  like  the  ghost,  in 
Hamlet,  thou  snuff  est  the  morning  air.  Wilt  thou  not  keep  out 
the  rank  atmosphere  by  a  pint  of  wine  and  a  toast?" 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Fielding ;  but  I  have  at  least  one 
property  of  a  ghost,  and  don't  drink  after  daybreak." 

"  Nay,  now, 'tis  a  bad  rule!  a  villainous  bad  xn\t,  only  for 
ghosts  and  graybeards.  We  youngters,  Count,  should  have  a 
more  generous  policy.  Come  now,  where  didst  thou  drink 
last  night?  has  the  bottle  bequeathed  thee  a  qualm  or  a 
headache,  which  preaches  repentance  and  abstinence  this 
morning?" 

"  No,  but  I  visit  my  mistress  this  morning  ;  would  you  have 
me  smell  of  strong  potations,  and  seem  a  worshipper  of  the 
'  Glass  of  Fashion '  rather  tlian  of  '  the  Mould  of  Form '  ? 
Confess,  Mr.  Fielding,  that  the  women  love  not  an  early  tippler, 
and  that  they  expect  sober  and  sweet  kisses  from  a  pair  of 
*  youngsters  '  like  us." 

"  By  the  Lord,"  cried  Mr.  Fielding,  stroking  down  his  comely 
stomach,  "  there  is  a  great  show  of  reason  in  thy  excuses, 
but  only  the  show,  not  substance,  my  noble  Count.  You  know 
me,  you  know  my  experience  with  the  women — I  would  not 
boast,  as  I'm  a  soldier — but  'tis  something  !  nine  hundred  and 
fifty  locks  of  hair  have  I  got  in  my  strong  box,  under  padlock 
and  key  ;  fifty  within  the  last  week — true — on  my  soul — so 
that  I  may  pretend  to  know  a  little  of  the  dear  creatures;  well, 
I  give  thee  my  honor.  Count,  that  they  like  a  royster ;  they 
love  a  fellow  who  can  carry  his  six  bottles  under  a  silken 
doublet ;  there's  vigor  and  manhood  in  it — and,  then,  too,  what 
a  power  of  toasts  can  a  six-bottle  man  drink  to  his  mistress  ! 
Oh,  'tis  your  only  chivalry  now — your  modern  substitute  for 
tilt  and  tournament ;  true,  Count,  as  I'm  a  soldier  !  " 

"  I  fear  my  Dulcinea  differs  from  the  herd,  then  ;  for  she 
tjuarrelled  with  me  for  supping  with  St.  John  three  nights  ago, 
and — "  ,      , 

"  St.  John,"  interrupted  Fielding,  cutting  me  off  in  the  be- 


.      DEVEReUX.  163 

ginning  of  a  witticism,  "  St.  John,  famous  fellow,  is  lie -not? 
By  the  Lord,  we  will  drink  to  his  administration,  you  in  choco- 
late, I  in  Madeira.  O'Carroll,  you  dog — O'Carroll — rogue — 
rascal — ass — dolt  ! " 

"The  same,  your  honor,"  said  the  orange  colored  lacquey, 
thrusting  in  his  lean  visage. 

"Ay,  the  same  indeed — thou  anatomized  son  of  St.  Patrick  ; 
why  dost  thou  not  get  fat?  thou  shamest  my  good  living,  and 
thy  belly  is  a  rascally  minister  to  thee,  devouring  all  things  for 
itself,  without  fattening  a  single  member  of  the  body  corporate. 
Look  at  me,  you  dog,  am  /  thin  ?  Go  and  get  fat,  or  I  will 
discharge  thee — by  the  Lord  I  will!  the  sun  shines  through 
thee  like  an  empty  wineglass." 

"  And  is  it  upon  your  honor's  Livings  you  would  have  me 
get  fat  ? "  rejoined  Mr.  O'Carroll,  with  an  air  of  deferential 
inquiry. 

"  Now,  as  I  live,  thou  art  the  impudentest  varlet  ! "  cried 
Mr.  Fielding,  stamping  his  foot  on  the  floor,  with  an  angry 
frown. 

"And  is  it  for  talking  of  your  honor's  lavings?  an'  sure 
that's  nothing  at  all,  at  all,"  said  the  valet,  twirling  his  thumbs 
with  expostulating  innocence. 

"Begone,  rascal!"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  "begone;  go  to  the 
Salop  and  bring  us  a  pint  of  Madeira,  a  toast,  and  a  dish  of 
chocolate." 

"  Yes,  your  honor,  in  a  twinkling,"  said  the  valet,  disap- 
pearing. 

"A  sorry  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  "  but  honest  and  faith- 
ful, and  loves  me  as  well  as  a  saint  loves  gold  ;  'tis  his  love 
makes  him  familiar." 

Here  the  door  was  again  opened,  and  the  sharp  face  of  Mr. 
O'Carroll  again  intruded. 

"  How  now,  sirrah  !  "  exclaimed  his  master. 

Mr.  O'Carroll,  without  answering  by  voice,  gave  a  grotesque 
sort  of  signal  between  a  wink  and' a  beckon.  Mr.  l-'iclding 
rose,  muttering  an  oath,  and  underwent  a  whisper.  "By  the 
Lord,"  cried  he,  seemingly  in  a  furious  passion,  "  and  thou 
hast  not  got  the  bill  cashed  yet,  though  1  told  thee  twice  to 
have  it  done  last  evening  !  Have  I  not  my  debts  of  honor  to 
discharge,  and  did  I  not  give  the  last  guinea  I  had  about  me 
for  a  walking-cane  yesterday  ?  Go  down  to  the  city  imme- 
diately, sirrah,  and  bring  me  the  change." 

The  valet  again  whispered. 

"  Ah,"  resumed  Mr.  Fielding,  "ah — so  far,  you  say,  'tis  true; 


i04  t>EVEREUX. 

'tis  a  great  way,  and  perhaps  the  Count  can't  wait  till  you 
return.  Prithee  (turning  to  me),  prithee  now,  is  it  not  vexa- 
tious— no  change  about  me,  and  my  fool  has  not  cashed  a 
trifling  bill  1  have  for  a  thousand  or  so  on  Messrs.  Child  !  and 
the  cursed  Salop  puts  not  its  trust  even  in  princes — 'tis  its 
way — 'Gad  now — you  have  not  a  guinea  about  you?" 

What  could  I  say?  my  guinea  joined  Tarleton's  in  a  visit  to 
that  bourne  whence  no  such  traveller  e'er  returned. 

Mr.  OCarroll  now  vanished  in  earnest,  the  wine  and  the 
chocolate  soon  appeared.  Mr.  Fielding  brightened  up,  recited 
his  poetry,  blessed  his  good  fortune,  promised  to  call  on  me  in 
a  day  or  two  ;  and  assured  me,  with  a  round  oath,  that  the  next 
time  he  had  the  honor  of  seeing  me,  he  would  treat  me  with 
another  pint  of  Madeira,  exactly  of  the  same  sort, 

I  remember  well  that  it  was  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  in 
which  I  had  paid  this  visit  to  the  redoubted  Mr.  Fielding,  that, 
on  returning  from  a  drum  at  Lady  Hasselton's,  I  entered  my 
anteroom  with  so  silent  a  step  that  I  did  not  arouse  even  the 
keen  senses  of  Monsieur  Desmarais.  He  was  seated  by  the 
fire,  with  his  head  supported  by  his  hands,  and  intently  poring 
over  a  huge  folio.  I  had  often  observed  that  he  possessed  a 
literary  turn,  and  all  the  hours  in  which  he  was  unemployed  by 
me,  he  was  wont  to  occupy  with  books.  I  felt  now,  as  I  stood 
still  and  contemplated  his  absorbed  attention  in  the  contents 
of  the  book  before  him,  a  strong  curiosity  to  know  the  nature 
of  his  studies ;  and  so  little  did  my  taste  second  the  routine  of 
trifles  in  which  I  had  been  lately  engaged,  that  in  looking  upon 
the  earnest  features  of  the  man,  on  which  the  solitary  light 
streamed  calm  and  full;  and  impressed  with  the  deep  quiet 
and  solitude  of  the  chamber,  together  with  the  undisturbed 
sanctity  of  comfort  presiding  over  the  small,  bright  hearth,  and 
contrasting  what  I  saw  with  the  brilliant  scene — brilliant  with 
gaudy,  wearing,  wearisome  frivolities — which  I  had  just  quitted, 
a  sensation  of  envy  at  the  enjoyments  of  my  dependant  en- 
tered my  breast,  accornpanied  with  a  sentiment  resembling 
humiliation  at  the  nature  of  my  own  pursuits.  I  am  generally 
thought  a  proud  man,  but  I  am  never  proud  to  my  inferiors  ; 
nor  can  I  imagine  pride  where  there  is  not  competition.  I 
approached  Desmarais,  and  said,  in  French  : 

"  How  is  this  ?  why  did  you  not,  like  your  fellows,  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  absence,  to  pursue  your  own  amusements?  They 
must  be  dull,  indeed,  if  they  do  not  hold  out  to  you  more  tempt- 
ing inducements  than  that  colossal  offspring  of  the  press." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  Desmarais,  very  respectfully  and  clos- 


ing  the  book,  "pardon  me,  I  was  not  aware  of  your  return. 
Will  Monsieur  doff  his  cloak  ?  " 

"No  ;  shut  the  door — wheel  round  that  chair,  and  favor  me 
with  a  sight  of  your  book." 

"  Monsieur  will  be  angry,  I  fear,"  said  the  valet  (obeying  the 
first  two  orders,  but  hesitating  about  the  third),  "with  my  course 
of  reading;  I  confess  it  is  not  very  compatible  with  my  station." 

"  Ah,  some  long  romance, — the  Clelia  I  suppose — nay,  bring 
it  hither — that  is  to  say,  if  it  be  movable  by  the  strength  of  a 
single  man." 

Thus  urged,  Desmarais  modestly  brought  me  tlie  book.  Judge 
of  my  surprise  when  I  found  it  was  a  volume  of  Leibnitz — a 
philosopher  then  very  much  the  rage — because  one  might  talk 
of  him  very  safely,  without  having  read  him.*  Despite  of  my 
surprise,  I  could  not  help  smiling  when  my  eye  turned  from  the 
book  to  the  student.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  an  appearance 
less  like  a  philosopher's  than  that  of  Jean  Desmarais.  His  wig 
was  of  a  nicety  that  would  not  have  brooked  the  irregularity  of 
a  single  hair ;  his  dress  was  not  preposterous,  for  I  do  not  re- 
member, among  gentles  or  valets,  a  more  really  exquisite  taste 
than  that  of  Desmarais  ;  but  it  evinced,  in  every  particular,  the 
arts  of  the  toilet.  A  perpetual  smile  sat  upon  his  lips — some- 
times it  deepened  into  a  sneer — but  that  was  the  only  change 
it  ever  experienced;  an  irresistible  air  of  self-conceit  gave  piqu- 
ancy to  his  long,  marked  features,  small,  glittering  eye,  and 
withered  cheeks,  on  which  a  delicate  and  soft  bloom  excited  sus- 
picion of  artificial  embellishment.  A  very  fit  frame  of  body 
this  for  a  valet ;  but,  I  humbly  opine,  a  very  unseemly  one  for  a 
student  of  Leibnitz. 

"And  what,"  said  I,  after  a  short  pause,  "is  your  opinion  of 
this  philosopher  ?  I  understand  that  he  has  just  written  a  work,f 
above  all  praise  and  all  comprehension." 

"  It  is  true.  Monsieur,  that  it  is  above  his  own  understanding. 
He  knows  not  what  sly  conclusions  may  be  drawn  from  his 
premises — but  I  beg  Monsieur's  pardon,  I  shall  be  tedious  and 
intrusive." 

"  Not  a  whit;  speak  out,  and  at  length.  So  you  conceive  that 
Leibnitz  makes  ropes  which  others  will  make  into  ladders  ? " 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Desmarais;  "all  his  arguments  go  to 
swell  the  sails  of  the  great  philosophical  truth — *  Necessity  ! '  We 
are  the  things  and  toys  of  Fate,  and  its  everlasting  chain  com- 
pels even  the  Power  that  creates,  as  well  as  the  things  created." 

*  Which  is  possibly  the  reason  why  there  are  so  many  disciples  of  Kant  at  the  present 
moment. — Ed. 

■  +  The  Theodicoea. 


lo6  DEVEREUX. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  I,  who,  though  little  versed  at  that  time  in  these 
metaphysical  subtleties,  had  heard  St  John  often  speak  of  the 
strange  doctrine  to  which  Desmarais  referred,  "you  are,  then, 
a  believer  in  the  fatalism  of  Spinosa  ? " 

"  No,  Monsieur,"  said  Desmarais,  with  a  complacent  smile, 
"my  system  is  my  own — it  is  composed  of  the  thoughts  of 
others — but  my  thoughts  are  the  cords  which  bind  the  various 
sticks  into  a  faggot." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  smiling  at  the  man's  conceited  air,  "and  what 
is  your  main  dogma?" 

"Our  utter  impotence."  .  ' 

"  Pleasing  !      Mean  you  that  we  have  no  free  will  ?" 

"None." 

"  Why,  then,  you  take  away  the  very  existence  of  vice  and 
virtue  ;  and,  according  to  you,  we  sin  or  act  well,  not  from  our 
own  accord,  but  because  we  are  compelled  and  pre-ordained 
to  it." 

Desmarais's  smile  withered  into  the  grim  sneer  with  which,  as 
I  have  said,  it  was  sometimes  varied. 

"  Monsieur's  penetration  is  extreme — but  shall  I  not  prepare 
his  nightly  draught?" 

"  No  ;  answer  me  at  length  ;  and  tell  me  the  difference  be- 
tween good  and  ill,  if  we  are  compelled  by  Necessity  to  either." 

Desmarais  hemmed,  and  began.  Despite  of  his  caution,  the 
coxcomb  loved  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  he  talked,  therefore, 
to  the  following  purpose: 

"  Liberty  is  a  thing  impossible  !  Can  you  will^  single  action, 
however  simple,  independent  of  your  organization — independ- 
ent of  the  organization  of  others — independent  of  an  order  of 
things  past — independent  of  the  order  of  things  to  come  ?  You 
cannot.  But  if  not  independent,  you  are  dependent;  if  depend- 
ent, where  is  your  liberty  ?  where  your  freedom  of  will  ?  Edu- 
cation disposes  our  characters — can  you  control  your  own 
education,  begun  at  the  hour  of  birth  ?  You  cannot.  Our  char- 
acter, joined  to  the  conduct  of  others,  disposes  of  our  happi- 
ness, our  sorrow,  our  crime,  our  virtue.  Can  you  control  your 
character  ?  We  have  already  seen  that  you  cannot.  Can  you 
control  the  conduct  of  others — others  perhaps  whom  you  have 
never  seen,  but  who  may  ruin  you  at  a  word — a  despot,  for  in- 
stance, or  a  warrior?  You  cannot.  What  remains  ?  that  if  we 
cannot  choose  our  characters,  nor  our  fates,  we  cannot  be  ac- 
countable for  either.  If  you  are  a  good  man,  you  are  a  lucky 
man ;  but  you  are  not  to  be  praised  for  what  you  could  not 
help.     If  you   are   a  bad  man,  you  are   an  unfortunate  one; 


DEVEREUX.  107 

but  you  are  not  to  be  execrated  for  what  you  could  not  pre- 
vent."* 

"Then,  most  wise  Desniarais,  if  you  steal  this  diamond  loop 
from  my  hat,  you  are  only  an  unlucky  man,  not  a  guilty  one,  and 
worthy  of  my  sympathy,  not  anger?  " 

"  Exactly  so — but  you  must  hang  me  for  it.  You  cannot  con- 
trol events,  but  you  can  modify  man.  Education,  law,  adver- 
sity, prosperity,  correction,  praise,  modify  him — without  his 
choice,  and  sometimes  without  his  perception.  But  once  ac- 
knowledge Necessity,  and  evil  passions  cease;  you  may  punish, 
you  may  destroy  others,  if  for  the  safety  and  good  of  the  com- 
monwealth; but  motives  for  doing  so  cease  to  be  private:  you 
can  have  no  personal  hatred  to  men  for  committing  actions 
which  they  were  irresistibly  compelled  to  commit." 

I  felt  that,  however  I  might  listen  to  and  dislike  these  senti- 
ments, it  would  not  do  for  the  master  to  argue  with  the  domes- 
tic, especially  when  there  was  a  chance  that  he  might  have  the 
worst  of  it.  And  so  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  fit  of  sleepi- 
ness, which  broke  off  our  conversation.  Meanwhile  I  inly 
resolved,  in  my  own  mind,  to  take  the  first  opportunity  of  dis-r 
charging  a  valet  who  saw  no  difference  between  good  and  evil, 
but  that  of  luck ;  and  who,  by  the  irresistible  compulsion  of 
Necessity,  might  some  day  or  other  have  the  involuntary  mis- 
fortune to  cut  the  throat  of  his  master ! 

I  did  not,  however,  carry  this  unphilosophical  resolution  into 
effect.  Indeed  the  rogue,  doubting,  perhaps,  the  nature  of  the 
impression  he  had  made  on  me,  redoubled  so  zealously  his 
efforts  to  please  me  in  the  science  of  his  profession,  that  I  could 
not  determine  upon  relinquishing  such  a  treasure  for  a  specula- 
tive opinion,  and  I  was  too  much  accustomed  to  laugh  at  my 
Sosia,  to  believe  there  could  be  any  reason  to  fear  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

An  Universal  Genius — Pericles  turned  Barber — Names  of  Beauties  in  171 — 
the  Toasts  of  the  Kit-Cat  Club 

As  I  was  riding  with  Tarleton  towards  Chelsea  one  day,  he 
asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  the  celebrated  Mr.  Salter.  "No," 
said  I,  "but  I  heard  Steele  talk  of  him  the  other  night  at  Wills's, 
He  is  an  antiquarian  and  a  barber,  is  he  not?" 

"  Yes,  a  shaving  virtuoso  ;  really  a  comical  and  strange  charac- 

•  Wh.-»tever  pretensions  Monsieur  Desmarais  may  have  had   to  originality,  this  tissue  of 
opinions  is  as  old  as  philosophy  itself, — Ep, 


I08  DEVEREUX. 

ter,  and  has  oddities  enough  to  compensate  one  for  the  debase- 
ment of  talking  with  a  man  in  his  rank." 

"Let  us  go  to  him  forthwith,"  said  I,  spurring  my  horse  into 
a  canter. 

^'' Quod  petis  hie  est,"  cxitd.  Tarleton,  "there  is  his  house." 
And  my  companion  pointed  to  a  coffee-house. 

"What,"  said  I,  "does  he  draw  wine  as  well  as  teeth?" 

"To  be  sure:  Don  Saltero  is  an  universal  genius.  Let  us 
dismount." 

Consigning  our  horses  to  the  care  of  our  grooms,  we  marched 
into  the  strangest-looking  place  I  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to 
behold.  A  long,  narrow  coffee-room  was  furnished  with  all 
manner  of  things  that,  belonging  neither  to  heaven,  earth,  nor 
the  water  under  the  earth,  the  redoubted  Saltero  might  well 
worship  without  incurring  the  crime  of  idolatry.  The  first  thing 
that  greeted  my  eyes  was  a  bull's  head,  with  a  most  ferocious 
pair  of  vulture's  wings  on  its  neck.  While  I  was  surveying 
this,  I  felt  something  touch  my  hat.  I  looked  up  and  discovered 
an  immense  alligator  swinging  from  the  ceiling,  and  fixing  a 
monstrous  pair  of  glass  eyes  upon  me.  A  thing  which  seemed 
tome  like  an  immense  shoe,  upon  a  nearer  approach,  expanded 
itself  into  an  Indian  canoe,  and  a  most  hideous  spectre  with 
mummy  skin,  and  glittering  teeth,  that  made  my  blood  run 
cold,  was  labelled,  "  Beautiful  Specimen  of  a  Calmuc  Tartar." 

While,  lost  in  wonder,  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment, 
up  walks  a  little  man,  as  lean  as  a  miser,  and  says  to  me,  rub- 
bing his  hands  : 

"Wonderful,  sir,  is  it  not?" 

"Wonderful,  indeed,  Don  !"  said  Tarleton ;  "you  look  like 
a  Chinese  Adam,  surrounded  by  a  Japanese  creation." 

"He,  he,  he  !  sir,  you  have  so  pleasant  a  vein,"  said  the  little 
Don,  in  a  sharp,  shrill  voice.  "But  it  has  been  all  done,  sir, 
by  one  man  ;  all  of  it  collected  by  me,  simple  as  I  stand." 

"Simple,  indeed,"  quoth  Tarleton  ;  "and  how  gets  on  the 
fiddle?" 

"Bravely,  sir,  bravely;  shall  I  play  you  a  tune?" 

"  No,  no,  my  good  Don  ;  another  time." 

"Nay, sir,  nay,"  cried  the  antiquarian,  "suffer  me  to  welcome 
your  arrival  properly." 

And,  forthwith  disappearing,  he  returned  in  an  instant  with 
a  marvellously  ill-favored  old  fiddle.  Throwing  a  penseroso 
air  into  his  thin  cheeks,  our  Don  then  began  a  few  preliminary 
thrummings,  which  set  my  teeth  on  edge,  and  made  Tarleton 
put  both  hands  to  his  ears.     Three  sober-looking  citizens,  who' 


DEVEREUX.  109 

had  just  sat  themselves  down  to  pipes  and  the  journal,  started 
to  their  feet  like  so  many  pieces  of  clockwork  ;  but  no  sooner 
had  Don  Saltero,  with  a  degage  air  of  graceful  melancholy, 
actually  launched  into  what  he  was  pleased  to  term  a  tune,  than 
an  universal  irritation  of  nerves  seized  the  whole  company. 
At  the  first  overture,  the  three  citizens  swore  and  cursed,  at  the 
second  division  of  the  tune  they  seized  their  hats,  at  the  third 
they  vanished.  As  for  me,  I  found  all  my  limbs  twitching  as 
if  they  were  dancing  to  St.  Vitus's  music  ;  the  very  drawers 
disappeared  ;  the  alligator  itself  twirled  round,  as  if  revivified 
by  so  harsh  an  experiment  on  the  nervous  system  ;  and  I  verily 
believe  the  whole  museum,  bull,  wings,  Indian  canoe,  and  Cal- 
muc  Tartar,  would  have  been  set  into  motion  by  this  new 
Orpheus,  had  not  Tarleton,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  seized  him 
by  the  tail  of  the  coat,  and  whirled  him  round,  fiddle  and  all, 
with  such  velocity  that  the  poor  musician  lost  his  equilibrium, 
and  falling  against  a  row  of  Chinese  monsters,  brought  the 
whole  set  to  the  ground,  where  he  lay  covered  by  the  wrecks 
that  accompanied  his  overthrow,  screaming  and  struggling,  and 
grasping  his  fiddle,  which  every  now  and  then,  touched  involun- 
tarily by  his  fingers,  uttered  a  dismal  squeak,  as  if  sympathizing 
in  the  disaster  it  had  caused,  until  the  drawer  ran  in,  and  raising 
the  unhappy  antiquarian,  placed  him  on  a  great  chair. 

"OLord!"  groaned  Don  Saltero,  "O  Lord — my  monsters — 
my  monsters — the  pagoda — the  Mandarin,  and  the  idol — where 
are  they  ? — broken — ruined — annihilated  !  " 

"No, sir — all  safe,  sir,"  said  the  drawer,  a  smart,  small, smug, 
pert  man  ;  "  put  'em  down  in  the  bill,  nevertheless,  sir.  Is  it 
Alderman  Atkins,  sir,  or  Mr.  Higgins?" 

"  Pooh,"  Said  Tarleton,  "  bring  me  some  lemonade — send  the 
pagoda  to  the  bricklayer — the  mandarin  to  the  surgeon — and 
ths  idol  to  the  Papist  over  the  way  !  There's  a  guinea  to  pay 
for  their  carriage.     How  are  you,  Don  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tarleton,  Mr.  Tarleton  ;  how  could  you  be  so 
cruel ? " 

"  The  nature  of  things  demanded  it,  my  good  Don.  Did  I 
not  call  you  a  Chinese  Adam  ?  and  how  could  you  bear  that 
name  without  undergoing  the  fall?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  this  is  no  jesting  matter — broke  the  railing  of  my 
pagoda — bruised  my  arm — cracked  my  fiddle — and  cut  me  off 
in  the  middle  of  that  beautiful  air  ! — no  jesting  matter." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Salter,"  said  I,  "tis  very  true!  but  cheer  up. 
*  The  gods,'  says  Seneca,  '  look  with  pleasure  on  a  great  man 
falling  with  the  statesmen,  temples,  and  the  divinities  of  hi§ 


no  DEVEREUX. 

country ';  all  of  which,  Mandarin,  pagoda,  and  idol,  accompanied 

your  fall.  Let  us  have  a  bottle  of  your  best  wine,  and  the  honor 
of  your  company  to  drink  it." 

"  No,  Count,  no,"  said  Tarleton  haughtily  ;  "  we  can  drink 
not  with  the  Don  ;  but  we'll  have  the  wine,  and  he  shall  drink  it. 
Meanwhile,  Don,  tell  us  what  possible  combination  of  circum- 
stances made  thee  fiddler,  barber,  anatomist  and  virtuoso  ! " 

Don  Saltero  loved  fiddling  better  than  anything  in  the  world, 
but  next  to  fiddling  beloved  talking.  So  being  satisfied  that  he 
should  be  reimbursed  for  his  pagoda,  and  fortifying  himself 
with  a  glass  or  two  of  his  own  wine,  he  yielded  to  Tarleton^ 
desire,  and  told  us  his  history.  I  believe  it  was  very  entertaih- 
ing  to  the  good  barber,  but  Tarleton  and  I  saw  nothing  extra- 
ordinary in  it  ;  and  long  before  it  was  over,  we  wished  him  an 
excellent  good  day,  and  a  new  race  of  Chinese  monsters. 

That  evening  we  were  engaged  at  the  Kit-Cat  Club,  for  though 
I  was  opposed  to  the  politics  of  its  members,  they  admitted  me 
on  account  of  my  literary  pretensions.  Halifax  was  there,  and 
I  commended  the  poet  to  his  protection.  We  were  very  ga}^ 
and  Halifax  favored  us  with  three  new  toasts  by  himself.  O 
Venus,  what  beauties  we  made,  and  what  characters  we  murdered ! 
Never  was  there  so  important  a  synod  to  the  female  world,  as  the 
gods  of  the  Kit-Cat  Club.  Alas  !  I  am  writing  for  the  children 
of  an  after-age,  to  whom  the  very  names  of  those  who  made  the 
blood  of  their  ancestors  leap  within  their  veins  will  be  unknown. 
AVhat  cheek  will  color  at  the  name  of  Carlisle  ?  What  hand  will 
tremble  as  it  touches  the  paper  inscribed  by  that  of  Brudenel ! 
The  graceful  Godolphin,  the  sparkling  enchantment  of  Harper, 
the  divine  voice  of  Claverine,  the  gentle  and  bashful  Bridge- 
water,  the  damask  cheek  and  ruby  lips  of  the  Hebe  Manchester — 
what  will  these  be  to  the  race  for  whom  alone  these  pages  are 
penned  !  This  history  is  a  union  of  strange  contrasts  !  Like  the 
tree  of  the  Sun,  described  by  Marco  Polo,  which  was  green 
when  approached  on  one  side,  but  white  when  perceived  on  the 
other — to  me  it  is  clothed  in  the  verdure  and  spring  of  the  exist- 
ing time  ;  to  the  reader  it  comes  covered  with  the  hoariness 
and  wanness  of  the  Past ! 


DEVEREUX.  *1I 


CHAPTER  VII. 


A  Dialogue  of  Sentiment  succeeded  by  the  Sketch  of  a  Character,  in  whose 
eyes  Sentiment  was  to  Wise  Men  wliat  Religion  is  to  Fools,  viz. — a 
subject  of  ridicule. 

St.  John  was  now  in  power,  and  in  the  full  flush  of  his  many 
ambitious  and  restless  schemes.  I  saw  as  much  of  him  as  the 
high  rank  he  held  in  the  state,  and  the  consequent  business  with 
which  he  was  oppressed,  would  suffer  me — me  who  was  pre- 
vented by  religion  from  actively  embracing  any  poHtical  party, 
and  who  therefore,  though  inclined  to  Toryism,  associated  pretty 
equally  with  all.  St.  John  and  myself  formed  a  great  friendship 
for  each  other,  a  friendship  which  no  after  change  or  chance 
could  efface,  but  which  exists,  strengthened  and  mellowed  by 
time,  at  the  very  hour  in  which  I  now  write. 

One  evening  he  sent  to  tell  me  he  should  be  alone,  if  I  would 
sup  with  him  ;  accordingly  I  repaired  to  his  house.  He  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  room  with  uneven  and  rapid  steps,  and  his 
countenance  was  flushed  with  an  expression  of  joy  and  triumph, 
very  rare  to  the  thoughtful  and  earnest  calm  which  it  usually 
wore.  "  Congratulate  me,  Devereux,"  said  he,  seizing  me  eagerly 
by  the  hand,  "  congratulate  me  ! " 

"For  what?" 

"  Ay,  true — you  are  not  yet  a  politician — you  cannot  yet  tell 
how  dear — how  inexpressibly  dear,  to  a  politician  is  a  momen- 
tary and  petty  victory — but — if  I  were  Prime  Minister  of  this 
country,  what  would  you  say  ?"  ■ 

"That  you  could  bear  the  duty  better  than  any  man  living — 
but  remember,  Harley  is  in  the  way." 

"Ah,  there's  the  rub,"  said  St.  John  slowly,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  again  changed  from  triumph  to  thoughtfulness  ; 
*'  but  this  is  a  subject  not  to  your  taste — let  us  choose  another." 
And  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  this  singular  man,  who  prided 
himself  on  suiting  his  conversation  to  every  one,  began  convers- 
ing with  me  upon  the  lighter  topics  of  the  day  ;  these  we  soon 
exhausted,  and  at  last  we  settled  upon  that  of  love  and  women. 

"  I  own,"  said  I,  "  that  in  this  respect  pleasure  has  disap- 
pointed as  well  as  wearied  me.  I  have  longed  for  some  better 
object  of  worship  than  the  trifler  of  fashion,  or  the  yet  more 
ignoble  minion  of  the  senses.  I  aska  ventfor  enthusiasm — for 
devotion — for  romance — for  a  thousand  subtle  and  secret  streams 
of  unuttered  and  unutterable  feeling.  I  often  think  that  I  bear 
within  me  the  desire  and  the  sentiment  of  poetry,  though  I  enjoy 
not  its  faculty  of  expression  ;  and  that  that  desire  and  that  senti* 


tl2  DEVEREUJf. 

ment,  denied  legitimate  egress,  centre  and  shrink  into  one  absorb- 
ing passion — which  is  the  want  of  love.  Where  am  I  to  satisfy  this 
want  ?  I  look  round  these  great  circles  of  gayety  which  we  term 
the  world — I  send  forth  my  heart  as  a  wanderer  over  their  regions 
and  recesses,  and  it  returns  sated,  and  palled,  and  languid,  to 
myself  again." 

"  You  express  a  common  want  in  every  less  worldly  or  more 
morbid  nature,"  said  St.  John,  "a  want  which  I  myself  have 
experienced,  and  if  I  had  never  felt  it,  I  should  never,  perhaps, 
have  turned  to  ambition  to  console  or  to  engross  me.  But  do 
not  flatter  yourself  that  the  want  will  ever  be  fulfilled.  Nature 
places  us  alone  in  this  inhospitable  world,  and  no  heart  is  cast 
in  a  similar  mould  to  that  which  we  bear  within  us.  We  pine  for 
sympathy  ;  we  make  to  ourselves  a  creation  of  ideal  beauties,  in 
which  we  expect  to  find  it — but  the  creation  has  no  reality — it  is 
the  mind's  phantasma  which  the  mind  adores — and  it  is  because 
the  phantasma  can  have  no  actual  being  that  the  mind  despairs. 
Throughout  life,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  it  is  no  real  or 
living  thing  which  we  demand ;  it  is  the  realization  of  the  ideal 
we  have  formed  within  us,  and  which,  as  we  are  not  gods  we  can 
never  call  into  existence.  We  are  enamoured  of  the  statue  our- 
selves have  graven  ;  but,  unlike  the  statue  of  the  Cyprian,  it  kin- 
dles not  to  our  homage,  nor  melts  to  our  embraces." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  I ;  "but  it  is  hard  to  undeceive  our- 
selves. The  heart  is  the  most  credulous  of  all  fanatics,  and  its 
ruling  passion  the  most  enduring  of  all  superstitions.  Oh  !  what 
can  tear  from  us,  to  the  last,  the  hope,  the  desire  the  yearning 
for  some  bosom  which,  while  it  mirrors  our  own,  parts  not  with 
the  reflection.  I  have  read  that,  in  the  very  hour  and  instant 
of  our  birth,  one  exactly  similar  to  ourselves,  in  spirit  and  form, 
is  born  also,  and  that  a  secret  and  unintelligible  sympathy  pre- 
serves that  likeness,  even  through  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune  and 
circumstance,  until,  in  the  same  point  of  time,  the  two  beings 
are  resolved  once  more  into  the  elements  of  earth — confess  that 
there  is  something  welcome,  though  unfounded  in  the  fancy,  and 
that  there  are  few  of  the  substances  of  worldly  honor  which  one 
would  not  renounce,  to  possess  in  the  closest  and  fondest  of  all 
relations  this  shadow  of  ourselves!" 

"Alas  !  "  said  St.  John,  "the  possession,  like  all  earthly  bless- 
ings, carries  within  it  its  own  principle  of  corruption.  The 
deadliest  foe  to  love  is  not  change,  nor  misfortune,  nor  jealousy, 
nor  wrath,  nor  anything  that  flows  from  passion,  or  emanates 
from  fortune;  the  deadliest  foe  to  \\.\%  custom  I  With  custom 
die  away  the  delusions  and  the  mysteries  which  encircle  it;  leaf 


after  leaf,  in  the  green  poetry  on  which  its  beauty  depends, 
droops  and  withers,  till  nothing  but  the  bare  and  rude  trunk  is 
left.  With  all  passion  the  soul  demands  something  unexpressed, 
some  vague  recess  to  explore  or  to  marvel  upon — some  veil  upon 
the  mental  as  well  as  the  corporeal  deity.  Custom  leaves  noth- 
ing to  romance,  and  often  but  little  to  respect.  The  whole  char- 
acter is  bared  before  us  like  a  plain,  and  the  heart's  eye  grows 
wearied  with  the  sameness  of  the  survey.  And  to  weariness 
succeeds  distaste,  and  to  distaste  one  of  the  myriad  shapes  of 
the  Proteus  Aversion — so  that  the  passion  we  would  make  the 
rarest  of  treasures  fritters  down  to  a  very  instance  of  the  com- 
monest of  proverbs — and  out  of  familiarity  cometh  indeed  con- 
tempt !  " 

"And  are  we,  then,"  said  I,  "forever  to  forego  the  most 
delicious  of  our  dreams  ?  Are  we  to  consider  love  as  an  entire 
delusion,  and  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  an  eternal  solitude  of 
heart  ?  What  then  shall  fill  the  crying  and  unappeasable  void 
of  our  souls  ?  What  shall  become  of  those  mighty  sources  of 
tenderness  which,  refused  all  channel  in  the  rocky  soil  of 
the  world,  must  have  an  outlet  elsewhere,  or  stagnate  into 
torpor?" 

"Our  passions,"  said  St.  John,  "are  restless,  and  will  make 
each  experiment  in  tlieir  power,  though  vanity  be  the  result  of 
all.  Disappointed  in  love,  they  yearn  towards  ambition;  and 
the  object  of  ambition,  unlike  that  of  love,  never  being  wholly  pos- 
sessed, ambition  is  the  more  durable  passion  of  the  two.  But  sooner 
or  later  even  that,  and  all  passions,  are  sated  at  last ;  and  when 
wearied  of  too  wide  a  flight,  we  limit  our  excursions,  and  look- 
ing round  us,  discover  the  narrow  bounds  of  our  proper  end,  we 
grow  satisfied  with  the  loss  of  rapture,  if  we  can  partake  of  en- 
joyment :  and  the  experience  which  seemed  at  first  so  bitterly 
to  betray  us  becomes  our  most  real  benefactor,  and  ultimately 
leads  us  to  content.  For  it  is  the  excess  and  not  the  nature  of 
our  passions  which  is  perishable.  Like  the  trees  which  grew 
by  the  tomb  of  Protesilaus,  the  passions  flourish  till  they  reach 
a  certain  height,  but  no  sooner  is  that  height  attained  than  they 
wither  away." 

Before  I  could  reply,  our  conversation  received  an  abrupt  and 
.complete  interruption  for  the  night.  The  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  a  man,  pushing  aside  the  servant  with  a  rude  and  yet 
.a  dignified  air,  entered  the  room  unannounced,  and  with  the 
most  perfect  disregard  to  ceremony — 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  St.  John,"  said  he — "how  d'ye  do? — 
Pretty  sort  of  a  day  we've  had. — Lucky  to  find  you  at  home—* 


Il4  bEVERElJX. 

that  is  to  say,  if  you  will  give  me  some  broiled  oysters  and  cham- 
pagne for  supper." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Doctor,"  said  St.  John,  changing  his  man- 
ner at  once  from  the  pensive  to  an  easy  and  somewhat  brusque 
familiarity — "  with  all  my  heart ;  but  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are 
a  convert  to  champagne  :  you  spent  a  whole  evening  last  week 
in  endeavoring  to  dissuade  me  from  the  sparkling  sin." 

"  Pish  !  I  had  suffered  the  day  before  from  it,  so,  like  a  true 
Old  Bailey  penitent,  I  preached  up  conversion  to  others,  not 
from  a  desire  of  their  welfare,  but  a  plaguy  sore  feeling  for  my 
own  misfortune.  Where  did  you  dine  to-day  ?  At  home  !  Oh  ! 
the  devil!  I  starved  on  three  courses  at  theDuke  ofOrmond's." 

"Aha!  Honest  Matt  was  there?" 

"Yes,  to  my  cost.  He  borrowed  a  shilling  of  me  for  a  chair. 
Hang  this  weather,  it  costs  me  seven  shillings  a  day  for  coach- 
fare,  besides  my  paying  the  fares  of  all  my  poor  brother  parsons, 
who  come  over  from  Ireland  to  solicit  my  patronage  for  a  bishop- 
ric, and  end  by  borrowing  half-a-crown  in  the  mean  while. 
But  Matt  Prior  will  pay  me  again,  I  suppose,  out  of  the  public 
money?" 

*'  To  be  sure,  if  Chloe  does  not  ruin  him  first." 

"Hang  the  slut:  don't  talk  of  her.  How  Prior  rails  against 
his  place.*  He  says  the  exercise  spoils  his  wit,  and  that  the 
only  rhymes  he  ever  dreams  of  nowadays  are  '  docket  and 
cocket. ' " 

"  Ha,  ha !  we  must  do  something  better  for  Matt — make  him 
a  bishop  or  an  ambassador.  But,  pardon  me,  Count,  I  have 
not  yet  made  known  to  you  the  most  courted,  authoritative,  im- 
pertinent, clever,  independent,  haughty,  delightful,  troublesome 
parson  of  the  age:  do  homage  to  Dr.  Swift.  Doctor,  be  merci- 
ful to  my  particular  friend,  Count  Devereux." 

Drawing  himself  up,  with  a  manner  which  contrasted  his  pre- 
vious one  strongly  enough,  Dr.  Swift  saluted  me  with  a  dignity 
which  might  even  be  called  polished,  and  which  certainly 
showed  that  however  he  might  prefer,  as  his  usual  demeanor, 
an  air  of  negligence,  and  semi-rudeness,  he  had  profited  suf- 
ficiently by  his  acquaintance  with  the  great  to  equal  them  in  the 
external  graces,  supposed  to  be  peculiar  to  their  order,  when- 
ever it  suited  his  inclination.  In  person.  Swift  is  much  above 
the  middle  height,  strongly  built  and  with  a  remarkably  fine 
outline  of  throat  and  chest;  his  front  face  is  certainly  displeas- 
ing, though  far  from  uncomely;  but  the  clear  chiselling  of  the 
nose,  the  curved  upper  lip,  the  full,  round   Roman  chin,  the 

*  In  the  Customs. 


OEVEREUX.  115 

hanging  brow,  and  the  resolute  decision  stamped  upon  the 
whole  expression  of  the  large  forehead,  and  the  clear  blue  eye, 
make  his  profile  one  of  the  most  striking  I  ever  saw.  He  hon^ 
ored  me,  to  my  great  surprise,  with  a  fine  speech  and  a  com- 
pliment; and  then,  with  a  look,  which  menaced  to  St.  John  the 
retort  that  ensued,  he  added:  "And  I  shall  always  be  glad  to 
think  that  I  owe  your  acquaintance  to  Mr.  Secretary  St.  John, 
who,  if  he  talked  less  about  operas,  and  singers — thought  less 
about  Alcibiades  and  Pericles — if  he  never  complained  of  the 
load  of  business  not  being  suited  to  his  temper,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment he  had  been  working,  like  Gumdragon,  to  get  the  said  load 
upon  his  shoulders ;  and  if  he  persuaded  one  of  his  sincerity 
being  as  great  as  his  genius, — would  appear  to  all  time  as 
adorned  with  the  choicest  gifts  that  Heaven  has  yet  thought  fit 
to  bestow  on  the  children  of  men.  Prithee  now,  Mr.  Sec.  when 
shall  we  have  the  oysters  !     Will  you  be  merry  to-night.  Count  ?  " 

"Certainly  ;  if  one  may  find  absolution  for  the  champagne." 

"I'll  absolve  you,  with  a  vengeance,  on  condition  that  you'll 
walk  home  with  me,  and  protect  the  poor  parson  from  the  Mo- 
hawks. Faith,  they  ran  young  Davenant's  chair  through  with  a 
sword,  t'other  night.  I  hear  they  have  sworn  to  make  daylight 
through  my  Tory  cassock — all  Whigs  you  know.  Count  Dever- 
eux,  nasty,  dangerous  animals,  how  I  hate  them  ;  they  cost  me 
five-and-sixpence  a  week  in  chairs  to  avoid  them." 

"  Never  mind.  Doctor,  I'll  send  my  servants  home  with  you," 
said  St.  John. 

"  Ay,  a  nice  way  of  mending  the  matter — that's  curing  the 
itch  by  scratching  the  skin  off.  I  could  not  give  your  tall  fel- 
lows less  than  a  crown  a-piece,  and  I  could  buy  off  the  blood- 
iest Mohawk  in  the  kingdom,  if  he's  a  Whig,  for  half  that  sum. 
But,  thank  Heaven,  the  supper  is  ready." 

And  to  supper  we  went.  '  The  oysters  and  champagne  seemed 
to  exhilarate,  if  they  did  not  refine,  the  Doctor's  wit.  St.  John 
was  unusually  brilliant.  I  myself  caught  the  infection  of  their 
humor,  and  contributed  my  quota  to  the  common  stock  of  jest 
and  repartee  ;  and  that  evening,  spent  with  the  two  most  ex- 
traordinary men  of  the  age,  had  in  it  more  of  broad  and  famil- 
iar mirth  than  I  have  ever  wasted  in  the  company  of  the  youngest 
and  noisiest  disciples  of  the  bowl  and  its  concomitants.  Even 
amidst  all  the  coarse  ore  of  Swift's  conversation,  the  diamond 
perpetually  broke  out ;  his  vulgarity  was  never  that  of  a  vulgar 
mind.  Pity  that,  while  he  condemned  St.  J'ohn's  over-affecta- 
tion of  the  grace  of  life,  he  never  perceived  that  his  affectation 
of  coarseness  and  brutality  was  to  the  full  as  unworthy  of  the 


tl6  CEVfekEtJX. 

simplicity  of  intellect;*  and  that  the  aversion  to  cant,  which 
was  the  strongest  characteristic  of  his  mind,  led  him  into  the 
very  faults  he  despised,  only  through  a  more  displeasing  and 
offensive  road.  That  same  aversion  to  cant  is,  by  the  way,  the 
greatest  and  most  prevalent  enemy  to  the  reputation  of  high 
and  of  strong  minds  ;  and  in  judging  Swift's  character  in  espe- 
cial, we  should  always  bear  it  in  recollection.  This  aversion — 
the  very  antipodes  to  hypocrisy — leads  men  not  only  to  disclaim 
the  virtues  they  have,  but  pretend  to  the  vices  they  have  not. 
Foolish  trick  of  disguised  vanity  ! — the  world,  alas,  readily  be- 
lieves them  !  Like  Justice  Overdo — in  the  garb  of  poor  Arth-^r 
of  Bradley,  they  may  deem  it  a  virtue  to  have  assumed  the  dis- 
guise ;  but  they  must  not  wonder  if  the  sham  Arthur  is  taken 
for  the  real,  beaten  as  a  vagabond,  and  set  in  the  stocks  as  a 
rogue ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Lightly  won — lightly  lost. — A  Dialogue  of  equal  Instruction  and  Amusement. 
— A  Visit  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller. 

One  morning  Tarleton  breakfasted  with  me.  "  I  don't  see 
the  little  page,"  said  he,  "who  was,  always  in  attendance  in  your 
anteroom,  what  the  deuce  has  become  of  him?" 

"You  must  ask  his  mistress  ;  she  has  quarrelled  with  me,  and 
withdrawn  both  her  favor  and  her  messenger." 

"What,  the  Lady  Hasselton  quarrelled  with  you  !  Diable ! 
Wherefore  ?" 

"Because  I  am  not  enough  of  the  'pretty  fellow';  am  tired 
of  carrying  hood  and  scarf,  and  sitting  behind  her  chair 
through  five  long  acts  of  a  dull  play  ;  because  I  disappointed 
her  in  not  searching  for  her  at  every  drum  and  quadrille  party  ; 

*  It  has  been  said  that  Swift  was  only  coarse  in  his  later  years,  and,  with  a  curious  igno- 
rance both  of  fact  and  of  character,  that  Pope  was  the  cause  of  the  Dean's  grossness  of  taste 
There  is  no  doubt  that  he  grew  coarser  with  age  ;  but  there  is  also  no  doubt  that,  grace- 
ful and  dignified  as  that  great  genius  could  be  when  he  pleased,  he  affected  at  a  period 
earlier  than  the  one  in  which  he  is  now  introduced,  to  be  coarse  in  both  spirit  and  manner. 
I  seize  upon  this  opportunity,  malaproposes  it  is,  to  observe  that  Swift's  preference  of 
Harley  to  St.  John  is  by  no  means  so  certain  as  writers  have  been  pleased  generally  to  as- 
sert. Warton  has  already  noted  a  passage  in  one  of  Swift's  letters  to  Bolingbroke,  to 
which  I  will  beg  to  call  the  reader's  attention  ; 

"  It  is  you  were  my  hero,  but  the  other  (Ixird  Oxford)  nei'er  -was;  yet  if  he  werCj  it 
was  your  own  fault,  who  taught  me  to  love  him,  and  often  vindicated  him,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  your  ministry,  from  my  accusations.  But  1  granted  he  had  the  greatest  inequali- 
ties of  any  man  alive  ;  and  his  whole  scene  was  fifty  times  more  a  what-d'ye-call-it  than 
yours  ;  for  I  declare  yours  was  unie.  and  I  wish  you  would  so  order  it  that  the  world 
may  be  as  wise  as  I  upon-that  article." 

I  have  to  apologize  for  introducing  this  quotation,  which  I  have  done  because  (and  I  en- 
treat the  reader  to  remember  this)  1  observe  that  Count  Devereux  always  speaks  of  Lord 
Bolingbroke  as  he  was  spoken  of  by  the  eminent  men  of  that  day — not  as  he  is  now  rated 
by  the  judgment  of  posterity.— Ed, 


DEVEkEUX.  117 

because  I  admired  not  her  monkey  ;  and  because  I  broke  a  tea- 
pot with  a  toad  for  a  cover." 

"And  is  not  that  enough ?"  cried  Tarleton.  "Heavens! 
what  a  black  bead-roll  of  offences ;  Mrs.  Merton  would  have 
discarded  me  for  one  of  them.  However,  thy  account  has  re- 
moved my  surprise  ;  and  I  heard  her  praise  thee  the  other 
day  ;  now,  as  long  as  she  loved  thee,  she  always  abused  thee 
like  a  pickpocket." 

"Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — and  what  said  she  in  my  favor?" 

"Why,  that  you  were  certainly  very  handsome,  though  you 
were  small ;  that  you  were  certainly  a  great  genius,  though  every 
one  would  not  discover  it ;  and  that  you  certainly  had  quite  the 
air  of  high  birth,  though  you  were  not  nearly  so  well  dressed  as 
Beau  Tippetly.  But  tntre  nous,  Devereux,  I  think  she  hates 
you,  and  would  play  you  a  trick  of  spite — revenge  is  too  strong 
a  word — if  she  could  find  an  opportunity." 

"  Likely  enough,  Tarleton  ;  but  a  coquette's  lover  is  always 
on  his  guard  ;  so  she  will  not  take  me  unawares." 

"So  be  it.  But  tell  me,  Devereux,  who  is  to  be  your  next 
mistress,  Mrs.  Denton  or  Lady  Clancathcart  ?  the  world  gives 
them  both  to  you." 

"The  world  is  always  as  generous  with  what  is  worthless  as 
the  bishop  in  the  fable  was  with  his  blessing.  However,  I 
promise  thee,  Tarleton,  that  I  will  not  interfere  with  thy  claims, 
either  upon  Mrs.  Denton  or  Lady  Clancathcart." 

"  Nay,"  said  Tarleton, "  I  will  own  that  you  are  a  very  Scipio  ; 
but  it  must  be  confessed,  even  by  you,  satirist  as  you  are,  that 
Lady  Clancathcart  has  a  beautiful  set  of  features." 

"A  handsome  face, but  so  vilely  made.  She  would  make  a 
splendid  picture  if,  like  the  goddess  Laverna,  she  could  be 
painted  as  a  head  without  a  body." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — you  have  a  bitter  tongue,  Count ;  but  Mrs. 
Denton,  what  have  you  to  say  against  her?" 

"Nothing;  she  has  no  pretensions  for  me  to  contradict.  She 
has  a  green  eye  and  a  sharp  voice  ;  a  mincing  gait  and  a  broad 
foot.  What  friend  of  Mrs.  Denton's  would  not,  therefore,  coun- 
sel her  to  a  prudent  obscurity  ?" 

"  She  never  had  but  one  lover  in  the  world,"  said  Tarleton, 
"who  was  old,  blind,  lame  and  poor;  she  accepted  him,,  and 
became  Mrs.  Denton." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "she  was  like  the  magnet,  and  received  hername 
from  the  very  first  person*  sensible  of  her  attraction." 

"Well,  you  have  a  shrewd  way  of  saying  sweet  things,"  said 

*Magnes. 


Il8  DEVEREUX. 

Tarleton  ;  "  but  1  must  own  that  you  rarely  or  never  direct  It 
towards  women  individually.  What  makes  you  break  through 
your  ordinary  custom?" 

"Because  I  am  angry  with  women  collectively;  and  must 
pour  my  spleen  through  whatever  channel  presents  itself." 

"  Astonishing,"  said  Tarleton  ;  "  I  despise  women  myself.  I 
always  did  :  but  you  were  their  most  enthusiastic  and  chival- 
rous defender  a  month  or  two  ago.  What  makes  thee  change, 
my  Sir  Amadis?" 

"  Disappointment !  they  weary,  vex,  disgust  me  ;  selfish,  friv- 
olous, mean,  heartless — out  on  them — 'tis  a  disgrace  to  have 
their  love  ! " 

''^  O  del !  What  a  sensation  the  news  of  thy  misogyny  will 
cause  ;  the  young,  gay,  rich  Count  Devereux,  whose  wit,  vivac- 
ity, splendor  of  appearance,  in  equipage  and  dress,  in  the 
course  of  one  season  have  thrown  all  the  most  established 
beaux  and  pretty  fellows  into  the  shade  ;  to  whom  dedications, 
and  odes,  and  billet-doux,  are  so  much  waste  paper  ;  who  has 
carried  off  the  most  general  envy  and  dislike  that  any  man 
ever  was  blessed  with,  since  St.  John  turned  politician  ;  what ! 
thou  all  of  a  sudden  to  become  a  railer  against  the  divine  sex 
that  made  thee  what  thou  art !  Fly — fly — unhappy  apostate,  or 
expect  the  fate  of  Orpheus,  at  least !  " 

"  None  of  your  railleries,  Tarleton,  or  I  shall  speak  to  thee 
of  plebeians,  and  the  canaille  !  " 

"  Sacre  !  my  teeth  are  on  edge  already  !  Oh,  the  base — base 
canaille,  how  I  loathe  them  !  Nay,  Devereux,  joking  apart,  I 
love  you  twice  as  well  for  your  humor.  I  despise  the  sex  heart- 
ily. \x\Att^,sub  rosah&  it  spoken,  there  are  few  things  that 
breathe  which  I  do  not  despise.  Human  nature  seems  to  me  a 
most  pitiful  bundle  of  rags  and  scraps,  which  the  gods  threw 
out  of  Heaven,  as  the  dust  and  rubbish  there." 

"A  pleasant  view  of  thy  species,"  said  I. 

"  By  my  soul  it  is.     Contempt  is  to  me  a  luxury.     I  would 
not  lose  the  privilege  of  loathing  for  all  the  objects  which  fools 
ever  admired.     What  does  old  Persius  say  on  the  subject  ? 
•  Hoc  ridere  meum  tarn  nil,  nuUi  tibi  vendo  Iliade.'  "  * 

"  And  yet,  Tarleton,"  said  I,  "  the  littlest  feeling  of  all  is  a  de- 
light in  contemplating  the  littleness  of  other  people.  Nothing 
is  more  contemptible  than  habitual  contempt." 

"  Prithee,  now,"  answered  the  haughty  aristocrat,  *'  let  us  not 
talk  of  these  matters  so  subtly — leave  me  my  enjoyment  with- 

*  "This  privilege  of  mine,  to  laugh, — such  a  nothing  as  it  seems, — 1  would  not  barter  to 
tbee  for  an  Iliad. 


DEVEREUX.  119 

out  refining  upon  it.  Wliat  is  your  first  pursuit  for  the  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Why,  I  have  promised  ray  uncle  a  picture  of  that  invalua- 
ble countenance  which  Lady  Hasselton  finds  so  handsome  ; 
and  I  am  going  to  give  Kneller  my  last  sitting." 

"  So,  so,  I  will  accompany  you  ;  I  like  the  vain  old  dog  ;  'tis 
a  pleasure  to  hear  him  admire  himself  so  wittily." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  I,  taking  up  my  hat  and  sword  ;  and  en- 
tering Tarleton's  carriage,  we  drove  to  the  painter's  abode. 

We  found  him  employed  in  finishing  a  portrait  of  Lady  Go- 
dolphin. 

"  He,  he  !  "  cried  he  when  he  beheld  me  approach.  **  By 
Got,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Count  Tevereux  ;  dis  painting  is 
tamned  poor  work  by  oneself,  widout  any  one  to  make  des 
grands yeux,  and  cry, '  O,  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  how  fine  dis  is  ! '  " 

"  Very  true,  indeed,"  said  I,  "  no  great  man  can  be  expected 
to  waste  his  talents  without  his  proper  reward  of  praise.  But, 
Heavens,  Tarleton,  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  wonder- 
ful ? — that  hand — that  arm — how  exquisite  !  If  Apollo  turned 
painter,  and  borrowed  colors  from  the  rainbow,  and  models 
from  the  goddesses,  he  would  not  be  fit  to  hold  the  pallet  to 
Sir  Godfrey  Kneller." 

"  By  Got,  Count  Tevereux,  you  are  von  grand  judge  of  paint- 
ing," cried  the  artist,  with  sparkling  eyes,  "and  I  vill  paint  you 
as  von  tamned  handsome  man  !  " 

"  Nay,  my  Apelles,  you  might  as  well  preserve  some  like- 
ness." 

*'  Likeness,  by  Got !  I  vill  make  you  like  and  handsome  both. 
By  my  shoul,  you  make  me  von  Apelles,  I  will  make  you  von 
Alexander  !  " 

"People  in  general,"  said  Tarleton,  gravely,  "  believe  that 
Alexander  had  a  wry  neck,  and  was  a  very  plain  fellow  ;  but 
no  one  can  know  about  Alexander  like  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller, 
who  has  studied  military  tactics  so  accurately,  and  who,  if  he 
had  taken  up  the  sword  instead  of  the  pencil,  would  have  been 
at  least  an  Alexander  himself." 

"  By  Got,  Meester  Tarleton,  you  are  as  goot  a  judge  of  de 
talents  for  de  war  as  Count  Tevereux  of  de  genie  for  de  paint- 
ing !  Meester  Tarleton,  I  vill  paint  your  picture,  and  1  vill 
make  your  eyes  von  goot  inch  bigger  than  dey  are  ! " 

"  Large  or  small,"  said  I  (for  Tarleton,  who  had  a  haughty 
custom  of  contracting  his  orbs  till  they  were  scarce  perceptible, 
was  so  much  offended,  that  I  thought  it  prudent  to  cut  off  his 
reply),  "large  or  small,  Sir  Godfrey,  Mr.  Tarleton's  eyes  ar? 


120  DEVEREUX. 

capable  of  admiring  your  genius  ;  why,  your  painting  is  like 
lightning,  and  one  flash  of  your  brush  would  be  sufficient  to 
restore  even  a  blind  man  to  sight." 

"  It  is  tamned  true,"  said  Sir  Godfrey  earnestly  ;  "  and  it 
did  restore  von  man  to  sight  once  !  By  my  shoul,  it  did  !  but 
sit  yourself  town,  Count  Tevereux,  and  look  over  your  left 
shoulder — ah,  dat  is  it — and  now  praise  on,  Count  Tevereux  ; 
de  thought  of  my  genius  gives  you — vat  you  call  it — von  ani- 
mation— von  fire, —  look  you — by  my  shoul,  it  does  !  " 

And  by  dint  of  such  moderate  panegyric,  the  worthy  Sir 
Godfrey  completed  my  picture,  with  equal  satisfaction  to  him- 
self and  the  original.  See  what  a  beautifier  is  flattery — a  few 
sweet  words  will  send  the  Count  Devereux  down  to  posterity, 
with  at  least  three  times  as  much  beauty  as  he  could  justly  lay 
claim  to.* 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  Development  of  Character,  and  a  long  Letter — a  Chapter,  on  the  whole, 
more  important  than  it  seems. 

The  scenes  through  which,  of  late,  I  have  conducted  my  reader, 
are  by  no  means  episodical ;  they  illustrate  far  more  than  mere 
narration  the  career  to  which  I  was  so  honorably  devoted. 
Dissipation — women — wine — Tarleton  for  a  friend.  Lady  Has- 
selton  for  a  mistress.     Let  me  now  throw  aside  the  mask. 

To  people  who  have  naturally  very  intense  and  very  acute 
feelings,  nothing  is  so  fretting,  so  wearing  to  the  heart,  as  the 
commonplace  affections,  which  are  the  properties  and  offspring 
of  the  world.  We  have  seen  the  birds  which,  with  wings  un- 
clipt,  children  fasten  to  a  stake.     The  birds  seek  to  fly,  and  are 

*  This  picture  represents  the  Count  in  an  undress.  The  face  is  decidedly,  though  by  no 
means  remarkably,  handsome  ;  the  nose  is  aquiline — the  upper  lip  is  short  and  chiselled— 
the  eyes  grey,  and  the  forehead,  which  is  by  far  the  finest  feature  in  the  countenance,  is 
peculiarly  high,  broad,  and  massive.  The  mouth  has  but  little  beauty  ;  it  is  severe,  caustic, 
and  rather  displeasing,  from  the  extreme  compression  of  the  lips.  The  great  and  prevalent 
expression  of  the  face  is  energy.  The  eye — the  brow — the  turn  of  the  head — the  erect, 
penetrating  aspect — are  all  strikingly  bold,  animated,  and  even  daring.  And  this  expres- 
sion makes  a  singular  contrast  to  that  in  another  likeness  of  the  Count,  which  was  taken  at 
a  much  later  period  of  life.  The  latter  portrait  represents  him  in  a  foreign  uniform,  decor- 
ated with  orders.  The  peculiar  sarcasm  of  the  mouth  is  hidden  beneath  a  very  long  and 
thick  mustachio,  of  a  much  darker  color  than  the  hair  (for  in  both  portraits,  as  in  jervas's 
picture  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  the  hair  is  left  undisguised  by  the  odious  fashion  of  the  day) 
Across  one  cheek  there  is  a  slight  scar,  as  of  a  sabre  cut.  The  whole  character  of  this 
portrait  is  widely  different  from  that  in  the  earlier  one.  Not  a  trace  of  the  fire— the  anima- 
tion— which  were  so  striking  in  the  physiognomy  of  the  youth  of  twenty, — is  discoverable 
in  the  calm,  sedate,  stately,  yet  somewhat  stern  expression,  which  seems  immovably 
spread  over  the  paler  hue  and  the  more  prominent  features  of  the  man  of  about  four  or 
five  and  thirty.  Yet,  upon  the  whole,  the  face  in  the  latter  portrait  is  handsomer  ;  and, 
from  its  air  of  dignity  and  reflection,  even  more  impressive  thsn  that  in  the  one  1  have  first 
IJCSfribecl.— Ep. 


DEVEREUX.  121 

pulled  back  before  their  wings  are  well  spread  ;  till,  at  last, 
they  either  perpetually  strain  at  the  end  of  their  short  tether, 
exciting  only  ridicule  by  their  anguish  and  their  impotent 
impatience ;  or,  sullen  and  despondent,  they  remain  on 
the  ground,  without  an  attempt  to  fly,  nor  creep,  even  to  the 
full  limit  which  their  fetters  would  allow.  Thus  is  it  with 
feelings  of  the  keen,  wild  nature  I  speak  of ;  they  are  either 
striving  forever  to  pass  the  little  circle  of  slavery  to  which 
they  are  condemned,  and  so  move  laughter  by  an  excess  of 
action,  and  a  want  of  adequate  power ;  or  they  rest  motionless 
and  moody,  disdaining  the  petty  indulgence  they  might  en- 
joy, till  sullenness  is  construed  into  resignation,  and  despair 
seems  the  apathy  of  content.  Time,  however,  cures  what  it 
does  not  kill :  and  both  bird  and  beast,  if  they  pine  not  to  the 
death  at  first,  grow  tame  and  acquiescent  at  last. 

What  to  me  was  the  companionship  of  Tarleton,  or  the  at- 
tachment of  Lady  Hasselton  ?  I  had  yielded  to  the  one,  and 
I  had  half  eagerly,  half  scornfully,  sought  the  other.  These, 
and  the  avocations  they  brought  with  them,  consumed  my  time, 
and  of  Time  murdered,  there  is  a  ghost,  which  we  term  Ennui. 
The  hauntings  of  this  spectre  are  the  especial  curse  of  the 
higher  orders  ;  and  hence  springs  a  certain  consequence  to  the 
passions.  Persons  in  those  ranks  of  society,  so  exposed  to 
Ennui,  are  either  rendered  totally  incapable  of  real  love,  or 
they  love  far  more  intensely  than  those  in  a  lower  station  ; 
for  the  affections  in  them  are  either  utterly  frittered  away  on  a 
thousand  petty  objects  (poor  shifts  to  escape  the  persecuting 
spectre),  or  else,  early  disgusted  with  the  worthlessness  of  these 
objects,  the  heart  turns  within  and  languishes  for  something  not 
found  in  the  daily  routine  of  life.  When  this  is  the  case,  and 
when  the  pining  of  the  heart  is  once  satisfied,  and  the  object 
of  love  is  found,  there  are  two  mighty  reasons  why  the  love 
should  be  most  passionately  cherished.  The  first  is,  the  utter 
indolence  in  which  aristocratic  life  oozes  away,  and  which  al- 
lows full  food  for  that  meditation  which  can  nurse  by  sure  de- 
grees the  weakest  desire  into  the  strongest  passion  ;  and  the 
second  reason  is,  that  the  insipidity  and  hollowness  of  all  patric- 
ian pursuits  and  pleasures  render  the  excitement  of  love  more 
delicious  and  more  necessary  to  the  ^^  ignavi  terrarum  domini," 
than  it  is  to  those  orders  of  society  more  usefully,  more  con- 
stantly, and  more  engrossingly  engaged. 

Wearied  and  sated  with  the  pursuit  of  what  was  worthless,  my 
heart  at  last  exhausted  itself  in  pining  for  what  was  pure.  I 
recurred  with  a  tenderness  which  I  struggled  with  at  first,  and 


122  DEVEREUX. 

which,  in  yielding  to,  I  blushed  to  acknowledge,  to  the  memory 
of  Isora.  And  in  the  world,  surrounded  by  all  which  might  be 
supposed  to  cause  me  to  forget  her,  my  heart  clung  to  her  far 
more  endearingly  than  it  had  done  in  the  rural  solitudes  in 
which  she  had  first  allured  it.  The  truth  was  this  :  at  the  time 
I  first  loved  her,  other  passions — passions  almost  equally  power- 
ful— shared  her  empire.  Ambition  and  pleasure — vast  whirl- 
pools of  thought — had  just  opened  themselves  a  channel  in 
my  mind,  and  thither  the  tides  of  my  desires  were  hurried  and 
lost.  Now  those  whirlpools  had  lost  their  power,  and  the 
channels,  being  dammed  up,  flowed  back  upon  my  breast. 
Pleasure  had  disgusted  me,  and  the  only  ambition  I  had  yet 
courted  and  pursued  had  palled  upon  me  still  more.  I  say, 
the  only  ambition — for  as  yet  that  which  is  of  the  loftier  and 
more  lasting  kind  had  not  afforded  me  a  temptation  ;  and  the 
hope  which  had  borne  the  name  and  rank  of  ambition  had  been 
the  hope  rather  to  glitter  than  to  rise. 

These  passions,  not  yet  experienced  when  I  lost  Isora,  had 
afforded  me  at  that  period  a  ready  comfort  and  a  sure  engross- 
ment. And  in  satisfying  the  hasty  jealousies  of  my  temper,  in 
deeming  Isora  unworthy,  and  Gerald  my  rival,  I  naturally 
aroused  in  my  pride  a  dexterous  orator  as  well  as  a  firm  ally. 
Pride  not  only  strengthened  my  passions,  it  also  persuaded 
them  by  its  voice ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  languid,  yet  deep, 
stillness  of  sated  wishes  and  palled  desires  fell  upon  me,  that 
the  low  accent  of  a  love  still  surviving  at  my  heart  made  itself 
heard  in  answer. 

I  now  began  to  take  a  different  view  of  Isora's  conduct.  I 
now  began  to  doubt  where  I  had  formerly  believed  ;  and  the 
doubt,  first  allied  to  fear,  gradually  brightened  into  hope.  Of 
Gerald's  rivalry,  at  least  of  his  identity  with  Barnard,  and, 
consequently,  of  his  power  over  Isora,  there  was,  and  there 
could  be,  no  feeling  short  of  certainty.  But  of  what  nature 
was  that  power?  Had  not  Isora  assured  me  that  it  was  not 
love  ?  Why  should  I  disbelieve  her  ?  Nay,  did  she  not  love 
myself  ?  had  not  her  cheek  blushed  and  her  hand  trembled 
when  I  addressed  her  ?  Were  these  signs  the  counterfeits  of 
love  ?  Were  they  not  rather  of  that  heart's  dye  which  no  skill 
can  counterfeit  ?  She  had  declared  that  she  could  not,  that 
she  could  never,  be  mine  :  she  had  declared  so  with  a  fearful 
earnestness  which  seemed  to  annihilate  hope  ;  but  had  she 
not  also,  in  the  same  meeting,  confessed  that  I  was  dear  to  her? 
Had  not  her  lip  given  me  a  sweeter  and  a  more  eloquent  as- 
surance of  that  confession  than  words  ? — and  could  hope  perish 


DEVEREUX,  li^ 

while  love  existed  ?  She  had  left  me— she  had  bid  me  fare- 
well for  ever  ;  but  that  was  no  proof  of  a  want  of  love,  or  of 
her  unworthiness.  Gerald,  or  Barnard,  evidently  possessed  an 
influence  over  father  as  well  as  child.    , Their  departure  from 

might    have    been    occasioned  by  him,  and  she    might 

have  deplored,  while  she  could  not  resist  it  :  or  she  might  7wf 
even  have  deplored  :  nay,  she  might  have  desired,  she  might 
have  advised  it,  for  my  sake  as  well  as  hers,  were  she  thoroughly 
convinced  that  the  union  of  our  loves  was  impossible 

But,  then,  of  what  nature  could  be  this  mysterious  authority 
which  Gerald  possessed  over  her?  That  which  he  possessed 
over  the  sire,  political  schemes  might  account  for  ;  but  these, 
surely,  could  not  have  much  weight  for  the  daughter.  This, 
indeed,  must  still  remain  doubtful  and  unaccounted  for.  One 
presumption,  that  Gerald  was  either  no  favored  lover,  or  that 
he  was  unacquainted  with  her  retreat,  might  be  drawn  from 
his  continued  residence  at  Devereux  Court.  If  he  loved  Isora, 
and  knew  her  present  abode,  would  he  not  have  sought  her? 
Could  he,  I  thought,  live  away  from  that  bright  face,  if  once 
allowed  to  behold  it?  unless,  indeed  (terrible  thought!), 
there  hung  over  it  the  dimness  of  guilty  familiarity,  and  in- 
difference had  been  the  offspring  of  possession.  But  Avas  that 
delicate  and  virgin  face,  where  changes,  with  every  moment, 
coursed  each  other,  harmonious  to  the  changes  of  the  mind,  as 
shadows  in  a  valley  reflect  the  clouds  of  heaven! — was  that 
face,  so  ingenuous,  so  girlishly  revelant  of  all, — even  of  the 
slightest,  the  most  transitory — emotion,  the  face  of  one  hardened 
in  deceit  and  inured  to  shame?  The  countenance  is,  it  is  true, 
but  a  faithless  mirror  :  but  what  man  that  has  studied  woman 
will  not  own  that  there  is,  at  least  while  the  down  of  first  youth 
is  not  brushed  away,  in  the  eye  and  cheek  of  a  zoned  and  un- 
tainted Innocence,  that  which  survives  not  even  the  fruition 
of  a  lawful  love,  and  has  no  (nay,  not  even  a  shadowed  and  im- 
perfect) likeness  in  the  face  of  Guilt?  Then,  too,  had  any 
worldlier  or  mercenary  sentiment  entered  her  breast  respecting 
me,  would  Isora  have  flown  from  the  suit  of  the  eldest  scion  of 
the  rich  house  of  Devereux  ? — and  would  she,  poor  and  desti- 
tute, the  daughter  of  an  alien  and  an  exile,  would  she  have 
spontaneously  relinquished  any  hope  of  obtaining  that  alliance 
that  maidens  of  the  loftiest  houses  of  England  had  not  dis- 
dained to  desire?  Thus  confused  and  incoherent,  but  thus 
yearning  fondly  towards  her  image  and  its  imagined  piirity, 
did  my  thoughts  daily  and  hourly  array  themselves ;  and,  in 
proportion    as    I     suffered   common    ties   to   drop    from    me 


124  DEVEREtJX. 

one  by  one,  those  thoughts  clung  the  more  tenderly  to"  that 
which,  though  severed  from  the  rich  argosy  of  former  love, 
was  still  indissolubly  attached  to  the  anchor  of  its  hope. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  levived  affection  that  I  received 
the  following  letter  from  my  uncle  : 

"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  long  letter,  my  dear  boy ;  I  read  it 
over  three  times  with  great  delight.  Od'sfish,  Morton,  you  are 
a  sad  Pickle,  I  fear,  and  seem  to  know  all  the  ways  of  the  town 
as  well  as  your  old  uncle  did  some  thirty  years  ago  !  'Tis  a 
very  pretty  acquaintance  with  human  nature  that  your  letters 
display.  You  put  me  in  mind  of  little  Sid,  who  was  just  about 
your  height,  and  who  had  just  such  a  pretty,  shrewd  way  of 
expressing  himself  in  simile  and  point.  Ah,  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  you  have  profited  by  your  old  uncle's  conversation,  and 
that  Farquhar  and  Etherege  were  not  studied  for  nothing. 

"But  1  have  sad  news  for  thee,  my  child,  or  rather  it  is  sad 
for  me  to  tell  thee  my  tidings.  It  is  sad  for  the  old  birds  to 
linger  in  their  nest  when  the  young  ones  take  wing  and  leave 
them  ;  but  it  is  merry  for  the  young  birds  to  get  away  from  the 
dull  old  tree,  and  frisk  it  in  the  sunshine — merry  for  them  to 
get  mates,  and  have  young  themselves.  Now,  do  not  think, 
Morton,  that  by  speaking  of  mates  and  young,  I  am  going  to 
tell  thee  thy  brothers  are  already  married  ;  nay,  there  is  time 
enough  for  those  things,  and  I  am  not  friendly  to  early  wed- 
dings, nor,  to  speak  truly,  a  marvellous  great  admirer  of  that 
holy  ceremony  at  any  age  ;  for  the  which  there  may  be  private 
reasons,  too  long  to  relate  to  thee  now.  Moreover,  I  fear  my 
young  day  was  a  wicked  time — a  heinous  wicked  time,  and  we 
were  wont  to  laugh  at  the  wedded  state,  until,  body  of  me, 
some  of  us  found  it  no  laughing  matter. 

"  But  to  return,  Morton — to  return  to  thy  brothers — they 
have  both  left  me  ;  and  the  house  seems  to  me  not  the  good 
old  house  it  did  when  ye  were  all  about  me ;  and,  somehow  or 
other,  I  look  now  oftener  at  the  church-yard  than  I  was  wont  to 
do.  You  are  all  gone  now — all  shot  up,  and  become  men  ; 
and  when  your  old  uncle  sees  you  no  more,  and  recollects  that 
all  his  own  contemporaries  are  out  of  the  world,  he  cannot 
help  saying,  as  William  Temple,  poor  fellow,  once  prettily 
enough  said,  'Methinks  it  seems  an  impertinence  in  me  to  be 
still  alive.'  You  went  first,  Morton  ;  and  I  missed  you  more 
than  I  cared  to  say  ;  but  you  were  always  a  kind  boy  to  those 
you  loved,  and  you  wrote  the  old  knight  merry  letters,  that 
made  him  laugh,  and  think  he  was  grown  young  again — (faith, 
boy,  that  was  a  jolly  story  of  the  three  Squires  at  Button's  !) — 


BEVEREUX.  125 

and  once  a  week  comes  your  packet,  well  filled,  as  If  you  did 
not  think  it  a  task  to  make  me  happy,  which  your  handwriting 
always  does  ;  nor  a  shame  to  my  grey  hairs  that  I  take  pleasure 
in  the  same  things  that  please  thee  !  So,  thou  seest,  my  child, 
that  I  have  got  through  thy  absence  pretty  well,  save  that  I 
have  had  no  one  to  read  thy  letters  to  ;  for  Gerald  and  thou 
are  still  jealous  of  each  other — a  great  sin  in  thee,  Morton, 
which  I  prithee  to  reform.  And  Aubrey,  poor  lad,  is  a  little 
too  rigid,  considering  his  years,  and  it  looks  not  well  in  the 
dear  boy  to  shake  his  head  at  the  follies  of  his  uncle.  And  as 
to  thy  mother,  Morton,  I  read  her  one  of  thy  letters,  and  she 
said  thou  wert  a  graceless  reprobate  to  think  so  much  of  this 
wicked  world,  and  to  write  so  familiarly  to  thine  aged  relative. 
Now,  I  am  not  a  young  man,  Morton,  but  the  word  aged  has  a 
sharp  sound  with  it  when  it  comes  from  a  lady's  mouth. 

"  Well,  after  thou  hadst  been  gone  a  month,  Aubrey  and 
Gerald,  as  I  wrote  thee  word  long  since,  in  the  last  letter  I 
wrote  thee  with  my  own  hand,  made  a  tour  together  for  a  little 
while,  and  that  was  a  hard  stroke  on  me.  But  after  a  week  or 
two  Gerald  returned  ;  and  I  went  out  in  my  chair  to  see  the 
dear  boy  shoot — 'sdeath,  Morton,  he  handles  the  gun  well. 
And  then  Aubrey  returned  alone;  but  he  looked  pined,  and 
moping,  and  shut  himself  up,  and  as  thou  dost  love  him  so,  I 
did  not  like  to  tell  thee,  till  now,  when  he  is  quite  well,  that  he 
alarmed  me  much  for  him  ;  he  is  too  much  addicted  to  his 
devotions,  poor  child,  and  seems  to  forget  that  the  hope  of  the 
next  world  ought  to  make  us  happy  in  this.  Well,  Morton,  at 
last,  two  months  ago,  Aubrey  left  us  again,  and  Gerald  last 
week  set  off  on  a  tour  through  the  sister  kingdom,  as  it  is 
called  ;  Faith,  boy,  if  Scotland  and  England  are  sister  king- 
doms, 'tis  a  thousand  pities  for  Scotland  that  they  are  not 
co-heiresses ! 

"  I  should  have  told  thee  of  this  news  before,  but  I  have 
had,  as  thou  knowest,  the  gout  so  villainously  in  my  hand,  that, 
till  t'other  day,  I  have  not  held  a  pen,  and  old  Nicholls,  my 
amanuensis,  is  but  a  poor  scribe  ;  and  I  did  not  love  to  let  the 
dog  write  to  thee  on  all  our  family  affairs — especially  as  1  have 
a  secret  to  tell  thee  which  makes  me  plaguy  uneasy.  Thou 
must  know,  Morton,  that  after  thy  departure  Gerald  asked  me 
for  thy  rooms  ;  and  though  I  did  not  like  that  any  one  else 
should  have  what  belonged  to  thee,  yet  I  have  always  had  a 
foolish  antipathy  to  say  '  No  ! '  so  thy  brother  had  them,  on 
condition  to  leave  them  exactly  as  they  were,  and  to  yield  them 
to  thee  whenever  thou  shouldst  return  to  claim  them.     Well> 


126  DEVEREUX. 

Morton,  when  Gerald  went  on  his  tour  with  thy  youngest 
brother,  old  Nicholls — you  know  'tis  a  garrulous  fellow— told 
me  one  night  that  his  son  Hugh — you  remember  Hugh,  a  thin 
youth,  and  a  tall — lingering  by  the  beach  one  evening,  saw  a 
man,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  come  out  of  the  castle  cave,  unmoor 
one  of  the  boats,  and  push  off  to  the  little  island  opposite. 
Hugh  swears  by  more  than  yea  and  nay,  that  the  man  was 
Father  Montreuil.  Now,  Morton,  this  made  me  very  uneas)', 
and  I  saw  why  thy  brother  Gerald  wanted  thy  rooms,  which 
communicate  so  snugly  with  the  sea.  So  I  told  Nicholls,  slily, 
to  have  the  great  iron  gate  at  the  mouth  of  the  passage  care- 
fully locked  ;  and  when  it  was  locked,  I  had  an  iron  plate  put 
over  the  whole  lock,  that  the  lean  Jesuit  might  not  creep  even 
through  the  keyhole.  Thy  brother  returned,  and  I  told  him  a 
tale  of  the  smugglers,  who  have  really  been  too  daring  of  late, 
and  insisted  on  the  door  being  left  as  I  had  ordered  ;  and  I 
told  him,  moreover,  though  not  as  if  I  had  suspected  his  com- 
munication with  the  priest,  that  I  interdicted  all  further  con- 
verse with  that  limb  of  the  church.  Thy  brother  heard  me 
with  an  indifferently  bad  grace  ;  but  I  was  peremptory,  and  the 
thing  was  agreed  on. 

"  Well,  child,  the  day  before  Gerald  last  left  us,  I  went  to 
take  leave  of  him  in  his  own  room — to  tell  thee  the  truth,  I  had 
forgotten  his  travelling  expenses — when  I  was  on  the  stairs  of 
the  tower,  I  heard — by  the  Lord  I  did — Montreuil's  voice  in 
the  outer-room,  as  plainly  as  ever  I  heard  it  at  prayers.  Od'sfish, 
Morton,  I  was  an  angered,  and  I  made  so  much  haste  to  the 
door,  that  my  foot  slipped  by  the  way  ;  thy  brother  heard  me 
fall,  and  came  out ;  but  I  looked  at  him  as  I  never  looked  at 
thee,  Morton,  and  entered  the  room.  Lo,  the  priest  was  not 
there ;  I  searched  both  chambers  in  vain ;  so  I  made  thy 
brother  lift  up  the  trap-door,  and  kindle  a  lamp,  and  I  searched 
the  room  below  and  the  passage.  The  priest  was  invisible. 
Thou  knowest,  Morton,  that  there  is  only  one  egress  in  the 
passage,  and  that  was  locked,  as  I  said  before,  so  where  the 
devil — the  devil  indeed — could  thy  tutor  have  escaped  ?  He 
could  not  have  passed  me  on  the  stairs  without  my  seeing  him  ; 
he  could  not  have  leaped  the  window  without  breaking  his 
neck  ;  he  could  not  have  got  out  of  the  passage  without  making 
himself  a  current  of  air. — Od'sfish,  Morton,  this  thing  might 
puzzle  a  wiser  man  than  thine  uncle.  Gerald  affected  to  be 
mighty  indignant  at  my  suspicions  ;  but,  God  forgive  him,  I 
saw  he  was  playing  a  part.  A  man  does  not  Avriie  plays,  my 
child,  without  being  keen-aighted  in  these  little  intrigues  ;  and. 


DEVEREUX.  127 

moreover,  it  is  impossible  I  could  have  mistaken  thy  tutor's 
voice,  which,  to  do  it  justice,  is  musical  enough,  and  is  the 
most  singular  voice  I  ever  heard — unless  little  Sid's  be  ex- 
cepted. 

^^  Apropos  of  little  Sid.  I  remember  that  in  the  Mall,  when 
I  was  walking  there  alone,  three  weeks  after  my  marriage, 
De  Grammont  and  Sid  joined  me.  I  was  in  a  melancholic 
mood — 'sdeath,  Morton,  marriage  tames  a  man  as  water  tames 
mice  ! — 'Aha,  Sir  William,'  cried  Sedley,  '  thou  hast  a  cloud  on 
thee — prithee  now  brighten  it  away :  see,  thy  wife  shines  on 
thee  from  the  other  end  of  the  Mall.'  '  Ah,  talk  not  to  a  dying 
man  of  his  physic  ! '  said  Grammont  (that  Grammont  was  a 
shocking  rogue,  Morton  !) — '  Prithee,  Sir  William,  what  is  the 
chief  characteristic  of  wedlock  ?  is  it  a  state  of  war  or  of 
peace?'  *0h,  peace  to  be  sure!'  cried  Sedley,  'and  Sir 
William  and  his  lady  carry  with  them  the  emblem.'  *  How  ! ' 
cried  I ;  for  I  do  assure  thee,  Morton,  I  was  of  a  different  turn 
of  mind.  'How!'  said  Sid,  gravely,  'why,  the  emblem  of 
peace  is  the  cornucopia^  which  your  lady  and  you  equitably 
divide — she  carries  the  copia,  and  you  the  cor — .'  Nay,  Mor- 
ton, nay,  I  cannot  finish  the  jest ;  for,  after  all,  it  was  a  sorry 
thing  in  little  Sid,  whom  I  had  befriended  like  a  brother,  witji 
heart  and  purse,  to  wound  me  so  cuttingly  ;  but  'tis  the  way 
with  your  jesters. 

"  Od'sfish,  now  how  I  have  got  out;  of  my  story !  Well,  I 
did  not  go  back  to  my  room,  Morton,  till  I  had  looked  to  the 
outside  of  the  iron  door,  and  seen  that  the  plate  was  as  firm 
as  ever  :  so  now  you  have  the  whole  of  the  matter.  Gerald 
went  the  next  day,  and  I  fear  me  much  lest  he  should  already 
be  caught  in  some  Jacobite  trap.  Write  me  thy  advice  on  the 
subject.  Meanwhile,  I  have  taken  the  precaution  to  have  the 
trapdoor  removed,  and  the  aperture  strongly  boarded  over. 

"  But  'tis  time  for  me  to  give  over.  I  have  been  four  days 
on  this  letter,  for  the  gout  comes  now  to  me  oftener  than  it 
did,  and  I  do  not  know  when  I  may  again  write  to  thee  with 
my  own  hand  ;  so  I  resolved  I  would  e'en  empty  my  whole 
budget  at  once.  Thy  mother  is  well  and  blooming ;  she  is,  at 
the  present,  abstractedly  employed  in  a  prodigious  piece  of 
tapestry,  which  old  Nicholls  informs  me  is  the  wonder  of  all 
the  women. 

"Heaven  bless  thee,  my  child!  Take  care  of  thyself,  and 
drink  moderately.  It  is  hurtful  at  thy  age  to  drink  above  a 
gallon  or  so  at  a  sitting.  Heaven  bless  thee  again,  and  when 
the  weather  gets  .warpser,  t;^o.u,  i^iust  come  with  thy  kind  looks. 


J  28  DEVEREUX. 

to  make  me  feel  at  home  again.  At  present  the  country  wears 
a  cheerless  face,  and  everything  about  us  is  harsh  and  frosty, 
except  the  blunt,  good-for-nothing  heart  of  thine  uncle,  and 
that,  winter  or  summer,  is  always  warm  to  thee. 

"William  Devereux." 
"  P.S. — I  thank  thee  heartily  for  the  little  spaniel  of  the  new 
breed  thou  gottest  me  from  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough.  It 
has  the  prettiest  red  and  white,  and  the  blackest  eyes  possible. 
But  poor  Ponto  is  as  jealous  as  a  wife  three  years  married,  and 
I  cannot  bear  the  old  hound  to  be  vexed,  so  I  shall  transfer 
the  little  creature,  its  rival,  to  thy  mother." 

This  letter,  tolerably  characteristic  of  the  blended  simplicity, 
penetration,  and  overflowing  kindness  of  the  writer,  occasioned 
me  much  anxious  thought.  There  was  no  doubt  in  my  mind 
but  that  Gerald  and  Montreuil  were  engaged  in  some  intrigue 
for  the  exiled  family.  The  disguised  name  which  the  former 
assumed,  the  state  reasons  which  D' Alvarez  confessed  that 
Barnard,  or  rather  Gerald,  had  for  concealment,  and  which 
proved,  at  least,  that  some  state  plot  in  which  Gerald  was 
engaged  was  known  to  the  Spaniard,  joined  to  those  expressions 
of  Montreuil,  which  did  all  but  own  a  design  for  the  restora- 
tion of  the  deposed  Line,  and  the  power  which  I  knew  he 
possessed  over  Gerald,  whose  mind,  at  once  bold  and  facile, 
would  love  the  adventure  of  the  intrigue,  and  yield  to  Mon- 
treuil's  suggestions  on  its  nature, — these  combined  circumstances 
left  me  in  no  doubt  upon  a  subject  deeply  interesting  to  the 
honor  of  our  house,  and  the  very  life  of  one  of  its  members. 
Nothing,  however,  for  me  to  do,  calculated  to  prevent  or 
impede  the  designs  of  Montreuil  and  the  danger  of  Gerald, 
occurred  to  me.  Eager  alike  in  my  hatred  and  my  love,  I  said, 
inly,  "What  matters  it  whether  one  whom  the  ties  of  blood 
never  softened  towards  me,  with  whom,  from  my  childhood 
upwards,  I  have  wrestled  as  with  an  enemy,  what  matters  it 
whether  he  win  fame  or  death  in  the  perilous  game  he  has 
engaged  in?"  And  turning  from  this  most  generous  and  most 
brotherly  view  of  the  subject,  I  began  only  to  think  whether 
the  search  or  the  society  of  Isora  also  influenced  Gerald  in  his 
absence  from  home.  After  a  fruitless  and  inconclusive  medita- 
tion on  that  head,  my  thoughts  took  a  less  selfish  turn,  and 
dwelt  with  all  the  softness  of  pity,  and  the  anxiety  of  love, 
upon  the  morbid  temperament  and  ascetic  devotions  of  Aubrey. 
What,  for  one  so  already  abstracted  from  the  enjoyments  of 
earth,   so   darkened    by  superstitious   misconceptions  of    the 


DEVEREUX.  129 

true  nature  of  God,  and  the  true  objects  of  his  creatures — what 
could  be  anticipated  but  wasted  powers  and  a  perverted  life  ? 
Alas  !  when  will  men  perceive  the  difference  between  religion 
and  priestcraft !  When  will  they  perceive  that  reason,  so  far 
from  extinguishing  religion  by  a  more  gaudy  light,  sheds  on  it 
all  its  lustre  ?  It  is  fabled  that  the  first  legislator  of  the  Peru- 
vians received  from  the  Deity  a  golden  rod,  with  which  in  his 
wanderings  he  w;ls  to  strike  the  earth  until  in  some  destined 
spot  the  earth  entirely  absorbed  it,  and  there — and  there  alone 
— was  he  to  erect  a  temple  to  the  Divinity.  What  is  this  fable 
but  the  cloak  of  an  inestimable  moral  ?  Our  reason  is  the  rod 
of  gold  ;  the  vast  world  of  truth  gives  the  soil,  which  it  is 
perpetually  to  sound  ;  and  only  where  without  resistance  the 
soil  receives  the  rod  which  guided  and  supported  us,  will  our 
Altar  be  sacred  and  our  worship  be  accepted. 


CHAPTER  X. 
Being  a  short  Chapter,  containing  a  most  Important  Erent. 

Sir  William's  letter  was  still  fresh  in  my  mind,  when,  for 
want  of  some  less  noble  quarter  wherein  to  bestow  my  tedious- 
ness,  I  repaired  to  St.  John.  As  I  crossed  the  hall  to  his 
apartment,  two  men,  just  dismissed  from  his  presence,  passed 
me  rapidly ;  one  was  unknown  to  me,  but  there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  other — it  was  Montreuil.  I  was  greatly  startled  ; 
the  priest  not  appearing  to  notice  me,  and  conversing  in  a 
whispered,  yet  seemingly  vehement  tone,  with  his  companion, 
hurried  on,  and  vanished  through  the  street  door.  I  entered 
St.  John's  room  :  he  was  alone,  and  received  me  with  his  usual 
gayety. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Secretary,"  said  I ;  "  but  if  not  a  question 
of  state,  do  inform  me  what  you  know  respecting  the  taller  one 
of  those  two  gentlemen  who  have  just  quitted  you?" 

"  It  is  a  question  of  state,  my  dear  Devereux,  so  my  answer 
must  be  brief  ;  very  little." 

"  You  know  who  he  is  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  Jesuit,  and  a  marvellously  shrewd  one  :  the  Abb6 
Montreuil." 

"  He  was  my  tutor." 

"Ah,  so  I  have  heard." 

"And  your  acquaintance  with  him  is  positively  and  bond  fide 
of  a  state  nature  ? " 


130  DEVEREUX. 

"  Positively  and  bond  fide." 

"  I  could  tell  you  something  of  him  ;  he  is  certainly  in  the 
service  of  the  Court  at  St.  Germains,  and  a  terrible  plotter  on 
this  side  the  channel." 

"  Possibly ;  but  I  wish  to  receive  no  information  respecting 
him." 

One  great  virtue  of  business  did  St.  John  possess,  and  I  have 
never  known  any  statesman  who  possessed  it  so  eminently  :  it 
was  the  discreet  distinction  between  friends  of  the  statesman 
and  friends  of  the  man.  Much  and  intimately  as  I  knew  St. 
John,  I  could  never  glean  from  him  a  single  secret  of  a  state 
nature,  until,  indeed,  at  a  later  period,  I  leagued  myself  to  a 
portion  of  his  public  schemes.  Accordingly  I  found  him,  at 
the  present  moment,  perfectly  impregnable  to  my  inquiries ; 
and  it  was  not  till  1  knew  Montreuil's  companion  was  the 
celebrated  intriguant,  the  Abbe  Gaultier,  that  I  ascertained  the 
exact  nature  of  the  priest's  business  with  St.  John,  and  the 
exact  motives  of  the  civilities  he  had  received  from  Abigail 
Masham.*  Being  at  last  forced,  despairingly,  to  give  over  the 
attempt  on  his  discretion,  I  suffered  St.  John  to  turn  the  con- 
versation upon  other  topics,  and  as  these  were  not  much  to  the 
existent  humor  of  my  mind,  I  soon  rose  to  depart. 

"  Stay,  Count,"  said  St.  John  ;  "shall  you  ride  to-day?" 

"If  you  will  bear  me  company." 

*\Voloniiers — to  say  the  truth,  I  was  about  to  ask  you  to 
canter  your  bay  horse  with  me  first  to  Spring  Gardens,!  where 
I  have  a  promise  to  make  to  the  director ;  and  secondly,  on  a 
mission  of  charity  to  a  poor  foreigner  of  rank  and  birth,  who, 
in  his  profound  ignorance  of  this  country,  thought  it  right  to 
enter  into  a  plot  with  some  wise  heads,  and  to  reveal  it  to  some 
foolish  tongues,  who  brought  it  to  us  with  as  much  clatter  as  if 
it  were  a  second  gunpowder  project.  I  easily  brought  him  off 
that  scrape,  and  I  am  now  going  to  give  him  a  caution  for  the 
future.  Poor  gentleman,  I  hear  that  he  is  grievously  distressed 
in  pecuniary  matters,  and  I  always  had  a  kindness  for  exiles. 
Who  knows  but  that  a  state  of  exile  may  be  our  own  fate !  and 
this  alien  is  sprung  from  a  race  as  haughty  as  that  of  St.  John, 
or  of  Devereux.     The  res  anf^usta  domi  must  gall  him  sorely  !  " 

"True,"  said  I  slowly.  "What  may  be  the  name  of  the 
foreigner?" 

♦Viz.— That  Count  Devereux  ascertained  the  priest's  communications  and  overtures  from 
the  Chevalier.  The  precise  extent  of  Bolinghroke's  secret  negotiations  with  the  exiled 
Prince  is  still  one  of  the  darkest  portions  of  the  history  of  that  time.  That  negotiations 
•were  carried  on,  both  by  Harley  and  St.  John,' very  largely,  and  very  closely,  I  nted  not  say 
that  there  is  no  doubt.— Ed. 

t  Vauxhall. 


DEVEREUX.  151 

"  Why — complain  not  hereafter  that  I  do  not  trust  you  in 
state  matters — I  will  divulge — D'Alvarez — Don  Diego — an 
hidalgo  of  the  best  blood  of  Andalusia  ;  and  not  unworthy  of 
it,  1  fancy,  in  the  virtues  of  fighting,  though  he  may  be  in  those 
of  counsel.     But — Heavens  !     Devereux — you  seem  ill !  " 

"  No,  no  !     Have  you  ever  seen  this  man  ?  " 

"Never." 

At  this  word  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  across  me,  for  I  knew  St. 
John's  fame  for  gallantry,  and  I  was  suspicious  of  the  motives 
of  his  visit. 

"  St.  John,  I  know  this  Spaniard — I  know  him  well,  and  inti- 
mately. Could  you  not  commission  me  to  do  your  errand,  and 
deliver  your  caution  ?  Relief  from  me  he  might  accept ;  from 
you,  as  a  stranger,  pride  might  forbid  it ;  and  you  would  really 
confer  on  me  a  personal  and  an  essential  kindness,  if  you  would 
give  me  so  fair  an  opportunity  to  confer  kindness  upon  him." 

"  Very  well,  I  am  delighted  to  oblige  you  in  any  way.  Take 
his  direction  ;  you  see  his  abode  is  in  a  very  pitiful  suburb. 
Tell  him  from  me  that  he  is  quite  safe  at  present ;  but  tell  him 
also  to  avoid,  henceforward,  all  imprudence,  all  connection  with 
priests,  plotters,  et  tous  ces  gens-la,  as  he  values  his  personal 
safety,  or  at  least  his  continuance  in  this  most  hospitable  country. 
It  is  not  from  every  wood  that  we  make  a  Mercury,  nor  from 
every  brain  that  we  can  carve  a  Mercury's  genius  of  intrigue." 

*'  Nobody  ought  to  be  better  skilled  in  the  materials  requisite 
for  such  productions  than  Mr.  Secretary  St.  John  ! "  said  I ; 
"and  now,  adieu." 

"Adieu,  if  you  will  not  ride  with  me.  We  meet  at  Sir  William 
Wyndham's  to-morrow." 

Masking  my  agitation  till  I  was  alone,  I  rejoiced  when  I 
found  myself  in  the  open  streets.  I  summoned  a  hackney 
coach,  and  drove  as  rapidly  as  the  vehicle  would  permit,  to  the 
petty  and  obscure  suburb  to  which  St.  John  had  directed  me. 
The  coach  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  very  humble,  but  not  abso- 
lutely wretched,  abode.  I  knocked  at  the  door,  A  woman 
opened  it,  and,  in  answer  to  my  inquiries,  told  me  that  the  poor 
foreign  gentleman  was  very  ill — very  ill  indeed — had  suffered 
a  paralytic  stroke — not  expected  to  live.  His  daughter  was 
with  him  now — would  see  no  one — even  Mr.  Barnard  had  been 
denied  admission. 

At  that  name  my  feelings,  shocked  and  stunned  at  first  by 
the  unexpected  intelligence  of  the  poor  Spaniard's  danger,  felt 
a  sudden  and  fierce  revulsion — I  combated  it.  This  is  no  time, 
I  thought,  for  any  jealous,  for  any  selfish,  emotion.     If  I  can 


132  DEVEREUX. 

serve  her,  if  I  can  relieve  her  father,  let  me  be  contented. 
"She  will  see  me,"  I  said  aloud,  and  I  slipped  some  money  in 
the  woman's  hand.  "I  am  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and  I 
shall  not  be  an  unwelcome  intruder  on  the  sick-room  of  the 
sufferer." 

"Intruder,  sir — bless  you,  the  poor  gentleman  is  quite  speech- 
less and  insensible." 

At  hearing  this,  I  could  refrain  no  longer.  Isora's  discon- 
solate, solitary,  destitute  condition,  broke  irresistibly  upon  me, 
and  all  scruple  of  more  delicate  and  formal  nature  vanished  at 
once.  I  ascended  the  stairs,  followed  by  the  old  woman — she 
stopped  me  by  the  threshold  of  a  room  on  the  second  floor,  and 
Aviiispered  "  77/(fr^./"  I  paused  an  instant — collected  breath 
and  courage,  and  entered.  The  room  was  partially  darkened. 
The  curtains  were  drawn  closely  around  the  bed.  By  a  table, 
on  which  stood  two  or  three  phials  of  medicine,  I  beheld  Isora, 
listening  with  an  eager,  a  most  eager  and  intent  face,  to  a  man 
whose  garb  betrayed  his  healing  profession,  and  who,  laying  a 
linger  on  the  outstretched  palm  of  his  other  hand,  appeared 
giving  his  precise  instructions,  and  uttering  that  oracular  breath 
which — mere  human  v.-ords  to  him — was  a  message  of  fate 
itself — a  fiat  on  which  hung  all  that  makes  life,  life,  to  his 
trembling  and  devout  listener.  Monarchs  of  earth,  ye  have 
not  so  supreme  a  power  over  woe  and  happiness,  as  one  village 
leech  !  As  he  turned  to  leave  her,  she  drew  from  a  most  slender 
purse  a  few  petty  coins,  and  I  saw  that  she  muttered  some  words 
indicative  of  the  shame  of  poverty,  as  she  tremblingly  tendered 
them  to  the  outstretched  palm.  Twice  did  that  palm  close  and 
open  on  the  paltry  sum  ;  and  the  third  time  the  native  instinct 
of  the  heart  overcame  the  later  im))ulse  of  the  profession.  The 
limb  of  Galen  drew  back,  and  shaking  with  a  gentle  oscillation 
hiscapitalian  honors,  he  laid  the  money  softly  on  the  table,  and 
buttoning  up  the  pouch  of  his  nether  garment,  as  if  to  resist 
temptation,  he  pressed  the  poor  hand  still  extended  towards 
him,  and  bowing  over  it  with  a  kind  respect  for  which  I  did 
long  to  approach  and  kiss  his  most  withered  and  undainty 
cheek,  he  turned  quickly  round,  and  almost  fell  against  me  in 
the  abstracted  hurry  of  his  exit. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  1  softly.     "  What  hope  of  your  patient  ?" 

The  leech  glanced  at  me  meaningly,  and  I  whispered  to  him 
to  wait  for  me  below.  Isora  had  not  yet  seen  me.  It  is  a 
notable  distinction  in  the  feelings,  that  all  but  the  solitary  one 
of  grief  sharpen  into  exquisite  edge  the  keenness  of  the  senses, 
but  grief  blunts  them  to  a  most  dull  obtuseness.     I  hesitated 


DEVEREUX.  133 

now  to  come  forward  ;  and  so  I  stood,  hat  in  hand,  by  the  door, 
and  not  knowing  that  the  tears  streamed  down  my  cheeks  as  I 
fixed  my  gaze  upon  Isora.  She  too  stood  still,  just  where  the 
leech  had  left  her,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and 
her  head  drooping.  The  right  hand  which  the  man  had  pressed, 
had  sunk  slowly  and  heavily  by  her  side,  with  the  small  snowy 
fingers  half  closed  over  the  palm.  There  is  no  describing  the 
despondency  which  the  listless  position  of  that  hand  spoke,  and 
the  left  hand  lay  with  a  like  indolence  of  sorrow  on  the  table, 
with  one  finger  outstretched  and  pointing  towards  the  phials, 
just  as  it  had,  some  moments  before,  seconded  the  injunctions 
of  the  prim  physician.  Well,  for  my  part,  if  I  were  a  painter 
1  would  come  now  and  then  to  a  sick  chamber  for  a  study  ! 

At  last  Isora,  with  a  very  quiet  gesture  of  self- recovery,  moved 
towards  the  bed,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  by  her  side.  If 
ray  life  depended  on  it,  I  could  not  write  one,  no,  not  t?^^ sylla- 
ble more  of  this  scene. 


CHAPTER  XL 
Containing  more  than  any  other  Chapter  in  the  Second  Book  of  this  History. 

My  first  proposal  was  to  remove  the  patient,  with  all  due  care 
and  gentleness,  to  a  better  lodging,  and  a  district  more  conven- 
ient for  the  visits  of  the  most  eminent  physicians.  When  I  ex- 
pressed this  wish  to  Isora,  she  looked  at  me  long  and  wistfully, 
and  then  burst  into  tears.  "  You  will  not  deceive  us,"  said  she, 
"  and  I  accept  your  kindness  at  once — from  Aim  I  rejected  the 
same  offer." 

"  Him  ? — of  whom  speak  you  ? — this  Barnard,  or  rather — but 
I  know  him  ! "  A  startling  expression  passed  over  Isora's  speak- 
ing face. 

"  Know  him  ! "  she  cried,  interrupting  me,  "  You  do  not — you 
cannot ! " 

"  Take  courage,  dearest  Isora-^if  I  may  so  dare  to  call  you — 
take  courage ;  it  is  fearful  to  have  a  rival  in  that  quarter — but 
I  am  prepared  for  it. — This  Barnard,  tell  me  again,  do  you  love 
him?" 

"  Love— Oh,  God,  no  ! " 

"What  then:  do  you  still  fear  him  ? — fear  him,  too,  protected 
by  the  unsleeping  eye  and  the  vigilant  hand  of  a  love  like  mine? " 

"Yes!"  she  said  falteringly,  "I  fear  ioryou/" 

"Me  ! "  I  cried,  laughing  scornfully,  "me  !  nay,  dearest,  there 


134  DEVEREUX. 

breatlies  not  that  man  whom  you  need  fear  on  wz)*  account. — But, 
answer  me — is  not — " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake — for  mercy's  sake  !  "  cried  Isora  eagerly, 
"do  not  question  me — I  am  bound,  by  a  most  solemn  oath, 
never  to  divulge  that  secret." 

"I  care  not,"  said  I,  calmly,  "I  want  no  confirmation  of  my 
knowledge — this  masked  rival  is  my  own  brother  !  " 

I  fixed  my  eyes  full  on  Isora  while  I  said  this,  and  she  quailed, 
beneath  my  gaze:  her  cheek — her  lips — were  utterly  without 
color,  and  an  expression  of  sickening  and  keen  anguish  was 
graven  upon  her  face. — She  made  no  answer. 

*'  Yes!  "  resumed  I,  bitterly,  "  it  is  my  brother — be  it  so — I  am 
prepared — but  if  you  can,  Isora,  say  one  word  to  deny  it?" 

Isora's  tongue  seemed  literally  to  cleave  to  her  mouth;  at  last, 
with  a  violent  effort,  she  muttered,  "  I  have  told  you,  Morton, 
that  I  am  bound  by  oath  not  to  divulge  this  secret;  nor  may  I 
breathe  a  single  syllable  calculated  to  do  so — if  I  deny  one 
name,  you  may  question  me  on  more — and,  therefore,  to  deny 
one  is  a  breach  of  my  oath.  But  beware  !  "  she  added,  vehe- 
mently, **  oh  !  beware  how  your  suspicions — mere  vague,  baseless 
suspicions — criminate  a  brother :  and,  above  all,  whomsoever 
you  believe  to  be  the  real  being  under  this  disguised  name,  as 
you  value  your  life,  and  therefore  mine — breathe  not  to  him  a 
syllable  of  your  belief." 

I  was  so  struck  with  the  energy  with  which  this  was  said,  that, 
after  a  short  pause,  I  rejoined  in  an  altered  tone  : 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  I  have  aught  against  life  to  fear  from 
a  brother's  hand — but  I  will  promise  you  to  guard  against  latent 
danger.  But  is  your  oath  so  peremptory  that  you  cannot  deny 
even  one  name  ? — if  not,  and  you  can  deny  this,  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  will  never  question  you  upon  another." 

Again  a  fierce  convulsion  wrung  the  lip  and  distorted  the  per- 
fect features  of  Isora.  She  remained  silent  for  some  moments, 
and  then  murmured,  *'  My  oath  forbids  me  even  that  single  an- 
swer— tempt  me  no  more — now  and  forever,  I  am  mute  upon 
this  subject." 

Perhaps  some  slight  and  momentary  anger,  or  doubt,  or  sus- 
picion, betrayed  itself  upon  my  countenance,  for  Isora,  after 
looking  upon  me  long  and  mournfully,  said  in  a  quiet  but  mel- 
ancholy tone  :  "  I  see  your  thoughts,  and  I  do  not  reproach  you 
for  them — it  is  natural  that  you  should  think  ill  of  one  whom 
this  mystery  surrounds — one  too  placed  under  such  circumstan- 
ces of  humiliation  and  distrust.  I  have  lived  long  in  your  coun- 
try— I  have  seen,  for  the  last  few  months,  much  of  its  inhabi- 


DEVEREUX.  135 

tants  ;  I  have  studied  too  the  works  which  profess  to  unfold  its 
national  and  peculiar  character  ;  I  know  that  you  have  a  dis= 
trust  of  the  people  of  other  climates;  I  know  that  you  are  cau- 
tious and  full  of  suspicious  vigilance,  even  in  your  commerce 
with  each  other ;  I  know,  too  (and  Isora's  heart  swelled  visibly 
as  she  spoke),  that  poverty  itself,  in  the  eyes  of  your  commer- 
cial countrymen,  is  a  crime,  and  that  they  rarely  feel  confidence 
or  place  faith  in  those  who  are  unhappy  ;  why,  Count  Dever- 
eux,  why  should  I  require  more  of  you  than  of  the  rest  of  your 
nation  ?  Why  should  you  think  better  of  the  penniless  and 
friendless  girl — the  degraded  exile — the  victim  of  doubt,  which 
is  so  often  the  disguise  of  guilt,  than  any  other — any  one  even 
among  my  own  people — would  think  of  one  so  mercilessly  de- 
prived of  all  the  decent  and  appropriate  barriers  by  which  a 
maiden  should  be  surrounded  ?  No — no — leave  me  as  you 
found  me — leave  my  poor  father  where  you  see  him — any  place 
will  do  for  us  to  die  in." 

"  Isora  !  "  I  said,  clasping  her  in  my  arms,  "  you  do  not  know 
me  yet;  had  I  found  you  in  prosperity,  and  in  the  world's  honor — 
had  I  wooed  you  in  your  father's  halls,  and  girt  around  with 
the  friends  and  kinsmen  of  your  race — I  might  have  pressed  for 
more  than  you  will  now  tell  me — I  might  have  indulged  sus- 
picion where  I  perceived  mystery,  and  I  might  not  have  loved 
as  I  love  you  now  !  Now,  Isora,  in  misfortune,  in  destitution,  I 
place  without  reserve  my  whole  heart — its  trust,  its  zeal  its  de- 
votion— in  your  keeping;  come  evil  or  good,  storm  or  sunshine, 
I  am  yours,  wholly,  and  forever.  Reject  me  if  you  will,  I  will 
return  to  you  again  ;  and  never — never — save  from  my  own  eyes 
or  your  own  lips — will  I  receive  a  single  evidence  detracting  from 
your  purity,  or,  Isora — mine  own,  own  Isora — may  I  not  add 
also — from  your  love?" 

"  Too,  too  generous  !  "  murmured  Isora,  struggling  passion- 
ately with  her  tears,  "may  Heaven  forsake  me  if  ever  I  am  un- 
grateful to  thee  ;  and  believe — believe  that  if  love,  more  fond, 
more  true,  more  devoted  than  woman  ever  felt  before,  can  re- 
pay you,  you  shall  be  repaid  !  " 

Why,  at  that  moment,  did  my  heart  leap  so  joyously  within 
me  ? — why  did  I  say  inly — "  The  treasure  I  have  so  long  yearned 
for,  is  found  at  last  :  we  have  met,  and  through  the  waste  of 
years,  we  will  walk  together,  and  never  part  again"?  Why,  at 
that  moment  of  bliss,  did  I  not  rather  feel  a  foretaste  of  the 
coming  woe  !  Oh,  blind  and  capricious  Fate,  that  gives  us  a 
presentiment  at  one  while,  and  witliholds  it  at  another  !  Knowl- 
edge, and  Prudence,  and  calculating  Foresight,  what  areye?— » 


136  DEVEREUX. 

warnings  unto  others,  not  ourselves.  Reason  is  a  lamp  which 
sheddeth  afar  a  glorious  and  general  liglit,  but  leavelh  all  that 
is  around  it  in  darkness  and  in  gloom.  We  foresee  and  foretell 
the  destiny  of  others — we  march  credulous  and  beniglitcd  to 
our  own  ;  and,  like  Laocoon,  from  tlie  very  altars  by  which  we 
stand  as  the  soothsayer  and  the  priest,  creep  forth,  unsusi)ected 
and  undreamt  of,  the  serpents  which  are  fated  to  destroy  us  ! 

That  very  day  then,  Alvarez  was  removed  to  a  lodging  more 
worthy  of  his  birth,  and  more  calculated  to  afford  hope  of  liis 
recovery.  He  bore  the  removal  without  any  evident  sign  of 
fatigue  ;  but  his  dreadful  malady  had  taken  away  both  speech 
and  sense,  and  he  was  already  more  than  half  the  property  of 
the  grave.  I  sent,  however,  for  the  best  medical  advice  which 
London  could  afford.  They  met — prescribed — and  left  the 
patient  just  as  they  found  him.  I  know  not,  in  the  progress  of 
science,  what  physicians  may  be  to  posterity,  but  in  my  time  they 
are  false  witnesses  subpoenaed  against  Death,  whose  testimony  al- 
ways tells  less  in  favor  of  the  plaintiff  than  the  defendant. 

Before  we  left  the  poor  Spaniard's  former  lodging,  and  when  I 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  some  instructions  to  the  landlady 
respecting  the  place  to  which  the  few  articles  of  property  be- 
longing to  Don  Diego  and  Isora  were  to  be  moved,  Isora  made 
me  a  sign  to  be  silent,  which  I  obeyed.  "  Pardon  me,"  said 
she  afterwards,  "but  I  confess  that  I  am  anxious  our  next  resi- 
dence should  not  be  known — should  not  be  subject  to  the  intru- 
sion of — of  this — " 

"Barnard,  as  you  call  him.  I  understand  you;  be  it  so  !  "  and 
accordingly  I  enjoined  the  goods  to  be  sent  to  my  own  house, 
whence  they  were  removed  to  Don  Diego's  new  abode ;  and  I 
took  especial  care  to  leave  with  the  good  lady  no  clue  to  discover 
Alvarez  and  his  daughter,  otherwise  than  through  me.  The 
pleasure  afforded  me  of  directing  Gerald's  attention  to  myself, 
I  could  not  resist.  "  Tell  Mr.  Barnard,  when  he  call,"  said  I, 
"  that  only  through  Count  Morton  Devereux,  will  he  hear  of 
Don  Diego  D'Alvarez,  and  the  lady  his  daughter." 

/'l  will,  your  honor,"  said  the  landlady  ;  and  then,  looking  at 
me  more  attentively,  she  added:  "Bless  me!  now  when  you 
speak,  there  is  a  very  strong  likeness  between  yourself  and  Mr. 
Barnard," 

I  recoiled  as  if  an  adder  had  slung  me,  and  hurried  into  the 
coach  to  support  the  patient,  who  was  already  placed  there. 

Now  then  my  daily  post  was  by  the  bed  of  disease  and  suffer- 
ing;  in  the  chamber  of  death  was  my  vow  of  love  ratified  ;  and 
in  sadness  and  in  sorrow  was  it  returned.     But   it  is  in  such 


DEVEREUJt.  t37 

Scenes  that  the  deepest,  the  most  endearing,  and  the  most  holy, 
species  of  the  passion  is  engendered.  As  I  heard  Isora's  low 
voice  tremble  with  the  suspense  of  one  who  watches  over  the 
hourly  severing  of  the  affection  of  Nature  and  of  early  years  :  as  I 
saw  her  light  step  flit  by  the  pillow  which  she  smoothed,  and  her 
cheek  alternately  flush  and  fade,  in  watching  the  wants  which 
she  relieved;  as  I  marked  her  mute,  her  unwearying,  tenderness, 
breaking  into  a  thousand  nameless  but  mighty,  cares  and  per- 
vading like  an  angel's  vigilance  every — yea,  the  minutest — course 
into  which  it  flowed — did  I  not  behold  her  in  that  sphere  in 
which  woman  is  most  lovely,  and  in  which  love  itself  consecrates 
its  admiration,  and  purifies  its  most  ardent  desires  ?  That  was 
not  a  time  for  our  hearts  to  speak  audibly  to  each  other  ;  but  we 
felt  that  they  grew  closer  and  closer,  and  we  asked  not  for  the 
poor  eloquence  of  words.  But  over  this  scene  let  me  not 
linger. 

One  morning,  as  I  was  proceeding  on  foot  to  Isora's,  I  perceived 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  Montreuil  and  Gerald  ;  they 
were  conversing  eagerly  :  they  both  saw  me.  Montreuil  made 
a  slight,  quiet,  and  dignified  inclination  of  the  head  :  Gerald 
colored,  and  hesitated.  I  thought  he  was  about  to  leave  his 
companion  and  address  me  ;  but,  with  a  haughty  and  severe  air, 
I  passed  on,  and  Gerald,  as  if  stung  by  my  demeanor,  bit  his  lip 
vehemently,  and  followed  my  example.  A  few  minutes  after- 
wards I  felt  an  inclination  to  regret  that  I  had  not  afforded  him 
him  an  opportunity  of  addressing  me.  "  I  might,"  thought 
I,  "  have  then  taunted  him  with  his  persecution  of  Isora,  and 
defied  him  to  execute  those  threats  against  me, 'in  which  it  is 
evident,  from  her  apprehensions  for  my  safety,  that  he  indulged." 

I  had  not,  however,  much  leisure  for  these  thoughts.  When 
I  arrived  at  the  lodgings  of  Alvarez,  I  found  that  a  great  change 
had  taken  place  in  his  condition  ;  he  had  recovered  speech, 
though  imperfectly,  and  testified  a  return  to  sense.  I  flew  up 
stairs  with  a  light  step  to  congratulate  Isora  ;  she  met  me  at  the 
door.  "  Hush  !  "  she  whispered  :  "  my  father  sleeps  !  "  But 
she  did  not  speak  with  the  animation  I  had  anticipated. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dearest?"  said  I,  following  her  into  an- 
other apartment  :  "  you  seem  sad,  and  your  eyes  are  red  with 
tears,  which  are  not,  methinks,  entirely  the  tears  of  joy  at  this 
happy  change  in  your  father?" 

"I  am  marked  out  for  suffering,"  returnd  Isora,  more  keenly 
than  she  was  wont  to  speak.  I  pressed  her  to  explain  her  mean- 
ing ;  she  hesitated  atfTrst,  but  at  length  confessed  that  her  father 
had  always  been  anxious  for  her  marriage  with  this  soi-disant 


138  DEVEREUX.' 

Barnard,  and  that  his  first  words  on  his  recovery  had  been  to 
press  her  to  consent  to  his  wislies. 

"  My  poor  father,"  said  she  weepingly,  "speaks  and  tliinks 
only  for  my  fancied  good  :  but  his  senses  as  yet  are  only  recovered 
in  part,  and  he  cannot  even  understand  me  when  I  speak  of  you. 
*  I  shall  die,'  he  said,  '  I  shall  die,  and  you  will  be  left  on  the 
wide  world  ! '  I  in  vain  endeavored  to  explain  to  him  that  I 
should  have  a  protector — he  fell  asleep  muttering  those  words, 
and  with  tears  in  his  eyes." 

"  Does  he  know  as  much  of  this  Barnard  as  you  do  ?"  said  I. 

"  Heavens,  no  ! — or  he  would  never  have  pressed  me  to  marry 
one  so  wicked." 

"  Does  he  know  even  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  Yes ! "  said  Isora,  after  a  pause,  "but  he  has  not  known  it 
iong." 

Here  the  physician  joined  us,  and  taking  me  aside,  informed 
me  that,  as  he  had  foreboded,  sleep  had  been  the  harbinger  of 
death,  and  that  Don  Diego  was  no  more.  I  broke  the  news  as 
gently  as  I  could  to  Isora  :  but  her  grief  was  far  more  violent 
than  I  could  have  anticipated  ;  and  nothing  seemed  to  cut  her 
so  deeply  to  the  heart  as  the  thoughtthat  his  last  wish  had  been 
one  with  which  she  had  not  complied,  and  could  never  comply. 

I  pass  over  the  first  days  of  mourning — I  come  to  the  one  after 
Don  Diego's  funeral.  1  had  been  with  Isora  in  the  morning ;  I 
left  her  for  a  few  hours,  and  returned  at  the  first  dusk  of  even- 
ing with  some  books  and  music,  which  I  vainly  hoped  she  might 
recur  to  for  a  momentary  abstraction  from  her  grief.  I  dismissed 
my  carriage,  with  the  intention  of  walking  home,  and  addressing 
the  woman-servant  who  admitted  me,  inquired,  as  was  my  wont, 
after  Isora.  "She  has  been  very  ill,"  replied  the  woman,  "ever 
since  the  strange  gentleman  left  her." 

"  The  strange  gentleman  ?" 

Yes,  he  had  forced  his  way  upstairs,  despite  the  denial  tlie 
servant  had  been  ordered  to  give  to  all  strangers.  He  had 
entered  Isora's  room  ;  and  the  woman,  in  answer  to  my  urgent 
inquiries,  added  that  she  had  heard  his  voice  raised  to  a  loud 
and  harsh  key  in  the  apartment ;  he  had  stayed  there  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  then  hurried  out,  seemingly  in  great 
disorder  and  agitation. 

"  What  description  of  man  was  he?"  I  asked. 

The  woman  answered  that  he  was  mantled  from  head  to  foot 
in  his  cloak,  which  was  richly  laced,  and  his  hat  was  looped 
with  diamonds,  but  slouched  over  that  part  of  his  face  which  the 
collar  of  his  cloak  did  not  hide,  so  that  she  could  not    further 


DEVEREUX.  139 

describe  him  than  as  one  of  a  haughty  and  abrupt  bearing,  and 
evidently  belonging  to  the  higher  ranks. 

Convinced  that  Gerald  had  been  the  intruder,  I  hastened 
up  the  stairs  to  Isora.  She  received  me  with  a  sickly  and 
faint  smile,  and  endeavored  to  conceal  the  traces  of  her 
tears. 

"So  !  "  said  I,  "  this  insolent  persecutor  of  yours  has  discovered 
your  abode,  and  again  insulted  or  intimidated  you.  He  shall 
do  so  no  more  ! — 1  will  seek  him  to-morrow — and  no  affinity  of 
blood  shall  prevent — " 

"  Morton,  dear  Morton  !  "  cried  Isora,  in  great  alarm,  and  yet 
with  a  certain  determination  stamped  upon  her  features,  "hear 
me  ! — it  is  true  this  man  has  been  here — it  is  true  that,  fearful 
and  terrible  as  he  is,  he  has  agitated  and  alarmed  me  ;  but  it  was 
only  for  you,  Morton — by  the  Holy  Virgin,  it  was  only  for  you! 
'  The  moment,'  said  he,  and  his  voice  ran  shiveringly  through 
my  heart  like  a  dagger,  '  the  moment  Morton  Devereux  discovers 
who  is  his  rival,  that  moment  his  death  warrant  is  irrevocably 
sealed  !  " 

"  Arrogant  boaster  !  "  I  cried,  and  my  blood  burnt  with  the 
intense  rage  which  a  much  slighter  cause  would  have  kindled 
from  the  natural  fierceness  of  my  temper.  "Does  he  think  my 
life  is  at  his  bidding,  to  allow  or  to  withhold  ? — Unhand  me,  Isora, 
unhand  me  !  I  tell  you  I  will  seek  him  this  moment,  and  dare 
him  to  do  his  worst  ! " 

"  Do  so,"  said  Isora,  calmly,  and  releasing  her  hold  ;  "  do  so  ; 
but  hear  me  first :  the  moment  you  breathe  to  him  your  suspicions 
you  place  an  eternal  barrier  betwixt  yourself  and  me!  Pledge 
me  your  faith  that  you  will  never,  while  I  live  at  least,  reveal  to 
him — to  any  one — whom  you  suspect — your  reproach,  your  de- 
fiance, your  knowledge — nay,  not  even  your  lightest  suspicion  of 
his  identity  with  my  persecutor — promise  me  this,  Morton  Deve- 
reux, or  I,  in  my  turn,  before  that  crucifix  whose  sanctity  we  both 
acknowledge  and  adore — that  crucifix  which  has  descended  to 
my  race  for  three  unbroken  centuries — which,  for  my  departed 
Father,  in  the  solemn  vow,  and  in  the  death  agony,  has  still  been 
a  witness,  a  consolation,  and  a  pledge,  between  the  soul  and  its 
Creator — by  that  crucifix  which  my  dying  mother  clasped  to  her 
bosom,  when  she  committed  me,  an  infant,  to  the  care  of  that 
Heaven  which  hears  and  records  forever  our  lightest  word — I 
swear  that  I  will  never  be  yours  ! '' 

"  Isora  !  "  said  I,  awed  and  startled,  yet  struggling  against  the 
impression  her  energy  made  upon  me,  "  you  know  not  to  what 
you  pledge  yourself,  nor  what  you  recjuire  of  me,     If  I  do  not 


I40  DEVEREUX. 

seek  out  this  man — if  I  do  not  expose  to  him  my  knowledge  of 
his  pursuit  and  unhallowed  persecution  of  you — if  I  do  not 
effectually  prohibit  and  prevent  their  continuance — think  well, 
what  security  have  I  for  your  future  peace  of  mind — nay,  even 
for  the  safety  of  your  honor  or  your  life  ?  A  man  thus  bold, 
daring,  and  unbaffled  in  his  pursuit,  thus  vigilant  and  skilful  in 
his  selection  of  time  and  occasion — so  that,  despite  my  constant 
and  anxious  endeavor  to  meet  him  in  your  presence,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  do  so — from  a  man,  I  say,  thus  pertinacious 
in  resolution,  thus  crafty  in  disguise,  what  may  you  not  dread 
when  you  leave  him  utterly  fearless  by  the  license  of  impunity  ? 
Think  too,  again,  Isora,  that  the  mystery  dishonors  as  much  as 
the  danger  menaces.  Is  it  meet  that  my  betrothed  and  my  future 
bride  should  be  subjected  to  these  secret  and  terrible  visitations — 
visitations  of  a  man  professing  himself  her  lover,  and  evincing 
the  vehemence  of  his  passion  by  that  of  his  pursuit  ?  Isora — 
Isora — you  have  weighed  not  these  things — you  know  not  what 
you  demand  of  me." 

"  I  do  !  "  answered  Isora,  "  I  do  know  all  that  I  demand  of 
you — I  demand  of  you  only  to  preserve  your  life." 

"How,"  said  I,  impatiently,  "cannot  my  hand  preserve  my 
life  ?  and  is  it  for  you,  the  daughter  of  a  line  of  warriors,  to  ask 
your  lover  and  your  husband  to  shrink  from  a  single  foe  ?  " 

"  No,  Morton,"  answered  Isora.  "  Were  you  going  to  battle, 
I  would  gird  on  your  sword  myself — were,  too,  this  man  other 
than  he  is,  and  you  were  about  to  meet  him  in  open  contest,  I 
would  not  wrong  you,  nor  degrade  your  betrothed,  by  a  fear. 
But  I  know  my  persecutor  well — fierce,  unrelenting — dreadful 
in  his  dark  and  ungovernable  passions  as  he  is,  he  has  not  the 
courage  to  confront  you:  I  fear  not  the  open  foe,  but  the  lurk- 
ing and  sure  assassin.  His  very  earnestness  to  avoid  you  ;  the 
precautions  he  has  taken — are  alone  sufficient  to  convince  you 
that  he  dreads  personally  to  oppose  your  claim,  or  to  vindicate 
himself." 

"  Then  what  have  I  to  fear  ? " 

"  Everything  !  Do  you  not  know  that  from  men,  at  once 
fierce,  crafty,  and  shrinking  from  bold  violence,  the  stuff  for 
assassins  is  always  made?  And  if  I  wanted  surer  proof  of  his 
designs  tlian  inference,  his  oath — it  rings  in  my  ears  now — is 
sufficient :  '  The  moment  Morton  Devereux  discovers  who  is 
his  rival,  that  moment  his  death-warrant  is  irrevocably  sealed.' 
Morton,  I  demand  your  promise  ;  or,  though  my  heart  break,  I 
will  record  my  own  vow." 

"  Stay     stay,"    I  said,  in  anger,  and  in  sorrow  ;    "  were  I  to 


DEVEREUX.  141 

promise  this,  and  for  my  own  safety  hazard  yours,  what  could 
you  deem  me  ?  " 

"  Fear  not  for  me,  Morton,"  answered  Isora  ;  "you  have  no 
cause.  I  tell  you  that  this  man,  villain  as  he  is,  ever  leaves  me 
humbled  and  abased.  Do  not  think  that  in  all  times,  and  all 
scenes,  I  am  the  foolish  and  weak  creature  you  behold  me  now. 
Remember,  that  you  said  rightly  I  was  the  daughter  of  a  line  of 
warriors  ;  and  I  have  that  within  me  which  will  not  shame  my 
descent." 

"  But,  dearest,  your  resolution  may  avail  you  for  a  time  ;  but 
it  cannot  forever  baffle  the  hardened  nature  of  a  man.  I  know 
my  own  sex,  and  I  know  my  own  ferocity,  were  it  once  aroused." 

*'  But,  Morton,  you  do  not  know  me"  said  Isora  proudly, 
and  her  face,  as  she  spoke,  was  set,  and  even  stern,  "  I  am  only 
the  coward  when  I  think  of  you  ;  a  word — a  look  of  mine — can 
abash  this  man;  or,  if  it  could  not,  I  am  never  without  a  weapon 
to  defend  myself,  or — or — "  Isora's  voice,  before  firm  and  col- 
lected, now  faltered,  and  a  deep  blush  flowed  over  the  marble 
paleness  of  her  face. 

"  Or  what  ?  "  said  I  anxiously. 

"  Or  thee,  Morton  ? "  murmured  Isora  tenderly,  and  with- 
drawing her  eyes  from  mine. 

The  tone,  the  look  that  accompanied  these  words,  melted  me 
at  once.     I  rose — I  clasped  Isora  to  my  heart. 

"  You  are  a  strange  compound,  my  own  fairy  queen  ;  but  these 
lips — this  cheek — those  eyes — are  not  fit  features  for  a  heroine." 

**  Morton,  if  I  had  less  determination  in  my  heart,  I  could 
not  love  you  so  well." 

"But  tell  me,"  I  whispered,  with  a  smile,  "where  is  thiswea 
pon  on  which  you  rely  so  strongly?" 

"Here!"  answered  Isora,  blushingly  ;  and,  extricating  her- 
self from  me,  she  showed  me  a  small  two-edged  dagger,  which 
she  wore  carefully  concealed  within  the  folds  of  her  dress.  I 
looked  over  the  bright,  keen  blade,  with  surprise,  and  yet  with 
pleasure,  at  the  latent  resolution  of  a  character  seemingly  so 
soft.  I  say,  with  pleasure,  for  it  suited  well  with  my  own  fierce 
and  wild  temper.  I  returned  the  weapon  to  her,  with  a  smile 
and  a  jest. 

"Ah!"  said  Isora,  shrinking  from  my  kiss,  "  I  should  not 
have  been  so  bold,  if  I  only  feared  danger  for  myself." 

But  if  for  a  moment  we  forgot,  in  the  gushings  of  our  affec- 
tion, the  object  of  our  converse  and  dispute,  we  soon  returned 
to  it  again.  Isora  was  the  first  to  recur  to  it.  She  reminded 
me  of  the  promise  she  required ;  and  she  spoke  with  4  serious-? 


142  DEVEREUX. 

ness  and  a  solemnity  which  I  found  myself  scarcely  able  to 
resist. 

"But,"  I  said,  "  if  he  ever  molest  you  hereafter:  if  again  I 
find  that  bright  cheek  blanched,  and  those  dear  eyes  dimmed 
with  tears,  and  I  know  that,  in  my  own  house,  some  one  has 
dared  thus  to  insult  its  queen,  am  I  to  be  still  torpid  and  inac- 
tive, lest  a  dastard  and  craven  hand  should  avenge  my  assertion 
of  your  honor  and  mine  ?  " 

"  No,  Morton  ;  after  our  marriage,  whenever  that  be,  you 
Avill  have  nothing  to  apprehend  from  him  on  the  same  ground 
as  before  ;  my  fear  for  you,  too,  will  not  be  what  it  is  now; 
your  honor  will  be  bound  in  mine,  and  nothing  shall  induce 
me  to  hazard  it — no,  not  even  your  safety.  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe  that,  after  that  event,  he  will  subject  me  no  longer 
to  his  insults — how,  indeed,  can  he,  under  your  perpetual  pro- 
tection ?  or  for  what  cause  should  he  attempt  it,  if  he  could  ? 
I  shall  be  then  yours — only  and  ever  yours — what  hope  could, 
therefore,  then  nerve  his  hardihood  or  instigate  his  intrusions  ? 
Trust  to  me  at  that  time,  and  suffer  me  to — nay,  I  repeat,  pro- 
mise me  that  I  may — trust  in  you  now  ! " 

What  could  I  do  ?  I  still  combated  her  wish  and  her  request ; 
but  her  steadiness  and  rigidity  of  purpose  made  me,  though 
reluctantly,  yield  to  them  at  last.  So  sincere,  and  so  stern, 
indeed,  appeared  her  resolution,  that  I  feared,  by  refusal,  that 
she  would  take  the  rash  oath  that  would  separate  us  for  ever. 
Added  to  this,  I  felt,  in  her  that  confidence  which,  I  am  apt  to 
believe,  is  far  more  akin  to  the  latter  stages  of  real  love,  than 
jealousy  and  mistrust;  and  I  could  not  believe  that  either  now, 
or,  still  less  after  our  nuptials,  she  would  risk  aught  of  honor, 
or  the  seemings  of  honor,  from  a  visionary  and  superstitious 
fear.  In  spite,  therefore,  of  my  keen  and  deep  interest  in  the 
thorough  discovery  of  this  mysterious  persecutor;  and,  still 
more,  in  the  prevention  of  all  future  designs  from  his  audacity, 
I  constrained  myself  to  promise  her  that  I  would  on  no  account 
seek  out  the  person  I  suspected,  or  wilfully  betray  to  him,  by 
word  or  deed,  my  belief  of  his  identity  with  Barnard. 

Though  greatly  dissatisfied  with  my  self-compulsion,  I  strove 
to  reconcile  myself  to  its  idea.  Indeed,  there  was  much  in  the 
peculiar  circumstances  of  Isora — much  in  the  freshness  of  her 
present  affliction — much  in  the  unfriended  and  utterdestitution 
of  her  situation — that  while,  on  the  one  hand,  it  called  forth 
her  pride,  and  made  stubborn  that  temper  which  was  naturally 
so  gentle  and  so  soft,  on  the  other  hand  made  me  yield  even 
to  wishes  that  I  thought  unreasonable,  and  consider  rather  the 


delicacy  and  deference  due  to  her  condition,  than  insist  upon 
the  sacrifices  which,  in  more  fortunate  circumstances,  I  might 
have  imagined  due  to  myself.  Still  more  indisposed  to  resist 
her  wish  and  expose  myself  to  its  penalty  was  I,  when  I  con- 
sidered her  desire  was  the  mere  excess  and  caution  of  her  love, 
and  when  I  felt  that  she  spoke  sincerely  when  she  declared 
that  it  was  only  for  me  that  she  was  the  coward.  Nevertheless, 
and  despite  all  these  considerations,  it  was  with  a  secret  dis- 
content that  I  took  my  leave  of  her,  and  departed  homeward. 

I  had  just  reached  the  end  of  the  street  where  the  house 
was  situated,  when  I  saw  there,  very  imperfectly,  for  the  night 
was  extremely  dark,  the  figure  of  a  man  entirely  enveloped  in 
a  long  cloak,  such  as  was  commonly  worn  by  gallants,  in  affairs 
of  secrecy  or  intrigue  ;  and,  in  the  pale  light  of  a  single  lamp 
near  which  he  stood,  something  like  the  brilliance  of  gems 
glittered  on  the  large  Spanish  hat  which  overhung  his  brow. 
I  immediately  recalled  the  description  the  woman  had  given 
me  of  Barnard's  dress,  and  the  thought  flashed  across  me  that 
it  was  he  whom  I  beheld.  "At  all  events,"  thought  I,  "I  may 
confirm  my  doubts,  if  I  may  not  communicate  them,  and  I  may 
watch  over  her  safety  if  I  may  not  avenge  her  injuries?"  I 
therefore  took  advantage  of  my  knowledge  of  the  neighborhood, 
passed  the  stranger  with  a  quickstep,  and  then,  running  rapidly, 
returned  by  a  circuitous  route  to  the  mouth  of  a  narrow  and 
dark  street,  which  was  exactly  opposite  to  Isora's  house.  Here 
I  concealed  myself  by  a  projecting  porch,  and  I  had  not  waited 
long  before  I  saw  the  dim  form  of  the  stranger  walk  slowly  by 
the  house.  He  passed  it  three  or  four  times,  and  each  time  I 
thought — though  the  darkness  might  well  deceive  me — that  he 
looked  up  to  the  windows.  He  made,  however,  no  attempt  at 
admission,  and  appeared  as  if  he  had  no  other  object  than  that 
of  watching  by  the  house.  Wearied  and  impatient  at  last,  I 
came  from  my  concealment.  "I  may  confirm  my  suspicions," 
I  repeated,  recurring  to  my  oath,  and  I  walked  straight  towards 
the  stranger. 

"Sir!"  I  said,  very  calmly,  "I  am  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  interfere  with  the  amusements  of  any  other 
gentleman ;  but  I  humbly  opine  that  no  man  can  parade 
by  this  house  upon  so  very  cold  a  night,  without  giving  just 
ground  for  suspicion  to  the  friends  of  its  inhabitants.  I  happen 
to  be  among  that  happy  number ;  and  I  therefore,  with  all  due 
humility  and  respect,  venture  to  request  you  to  seek  some  other 
spot  for  your  nocturnal  perambulations." 

I  made  this  speech  purposely  prolix,  in  order  to  have  time 


144  DEVERt:tJ5i. 

fully  to  reconnoitre  the  person  of  the  one  I  addressed.  The 
dusk  of  the  night,  and  the  loose  garb  of  the  stranger,  certainly 
forbade  any  decided  success  to  this  scrutiny  ;  but  methought 
the  figure  seemed,  despite  of  my  prepossessions,  to  want  the 
stately  height  and  grand  proportions  of  Gerald  Devereux.  I 
must  own,  however,  that  the  necessary  inexactitude  of  my 
survey  rendered  this  idea  without  just  foundation,  and  did  not 
by  any  means  diminish  my  firm  impression  that  it  was  Gerald 
whom  I  beheld.  While  I  spoke,  he  retreated  with  a  quick 
step,  but  made  no  answer ;  I  pressed  upon  him — he  backed 
with  a  still  quicker  step  ;  and  when  I  had  ended,  he  fairly  turned 
round,  and  made  at  full  speed  along  the  dark  street  in  which  I 
had  fixed  my  previous  post  of  watch.  I  fled  after  him,  with  a 
step  as  fleet  as  his  own — his  cloak  encumbered  his  flight — I 
gained  upon  him  sensibly — he  turned  a  sharp  corner — threw 
me  out,  and  entered  into  a  broad  thoroughfare.  As  I  sped  after 
him,  Bacchanalian  voices  burst  upon  my  ear,  and  presently  a 
large  band  of  those  young  men  who,  under  the  name  of  Mohawks, 
were  wont  to  scour  the  town  nightly,  and,  sword  in  hand,  to 
exercise  their  love  of  riot  under  the  disguise  of  party  zeal, 
became  visible  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  Through  them  my 
fugitive  dashed  headlong,  and,  profiting  by  their  surprise,  escaped 
unmolested.  I  attempted  to  follow  with  equal  speed,  but  was 
less  successful.  "  Hallo  ! "  cried  the  foremost  of  the  group, 
placing  himself  in  my  way. 

"  No  such  haste  !  Art  Whig  or  Tory  ?  Under  which  king — 
Bezonian,  speak  or  die?" 

"  Have  a  care,  sir,"  said  I  fiercely,  drawing  my  sword. 

"Treason,  treason  !"  cried  the  speaker,  confronting  me  with 
equal  readiness.     "Have  a  care,  indeed — have  at  thee." 

"Ha!"  cried  another,  "'tis  a  Tory  :  'tis  the  Secretary's  popish 
friend,  Devereux — pike  him,  pike  him." 

I  had  already  run  my  opponent  through  the  sword  arm,  and 
was  in  hopes  that  this  act  would  intimidate  the  rest,  and  allow 
my  escape ;  but  at  the  sound  of  my  name  and  political  bias, 
coupled  with  the  drawn  blood  of  their  confederate,  the  patriots 
rushed  upon  me  with  that  amiable  fury  generally  characteristic 
of  all  true  lovers  of  their  country.  Two  swords  passed  through 
my  body  simultaneously,  and  I  fell  bleeding  and  insensible  to 
the  ground.  When  I  recovered  I  was  in  my  own  apartments, 
whither  two  of  the  gentler  Mohawks  had  conveyed  me;  the 
surgeons  were  by  my  bedside ;  I  groaned  audibly  when  I  saw 
them.  If  there  is  a  thing  in  the  world  I  hate,  it  is  in  any  shape 
the  disciples  of  Hermes;  they  always  remind  me  of  that  Indian 


DEVEREUi.  HS 

people  (the  Padaei,  I  think)  mentioned  by  Herodotus,  who 
sustained  themselves  by  devouring  the  sick.  "All  is  well," 
said  one,  when  my  groan  was  heard.  **He  will  not  die,"  said 
another.  "At  least  not  till  we  have  had  more  fees,"  said  a 
third,  more  candid  than  the  rest.  And  thereupon  they  seized 
me  and  began  torturing  my  wounds  anew,  till  I  fainted  away 
with  the  pain.  However,  the  next  day  I  was  declared  out  of 
immediate  danger  ;  and  the  first  proof  I  gave  of  my  convales- 
cence was  to  make  Desmarais  discharge  four  surgeons  put  of 
five  :  the  remaining  one  I  thought  my  youth  and  constitution 
might  enable  me  to  endure. 

That  very  evening,  as  I  was  turning  restlessly  in  my  bed,  and 
muttering,  with  parched  lips,  the  name  of  "Isora,"  I  saw  by  my 
side  a  figure  covered  from  head  to  foot  in  a  long  veil,  and  a 
voice,  low,  soft,  but  thrilling  through  my  heart  like  a  new  exist- 
ence, murmured,  "  She  is  here  !  " 

I  forgot  my  wounds,  I  forgot  my  pain  and  my  debility — I 
sprung  upwards — the  stranger  drew  aside  the  veil  from  her 
countenance,  and  I  beheld  Isora ! 

"Yes!"  said  she,  in  her  own  liquid  and  honied  accents, 
which  fell  like  balm  upon  my  wound,  and  my  spirit,  "yes,  she 
yfhom  you  have  hitherto  tended  is  come,  in  her  turn,  to  render 
some  slight,  but  woman's  services  to  you.  She  has  come  to 
nurse,  and  to  soothe,  and  to  pray  for  you,  and  to  be,  till  you 
yourself  discard  her,  your  handmaid  and  your  slave  !  " 

I  would  have  answered,  but  raising  her  finger  to  her  lips, 
she  arose  and  vanished ;  but  from  that  hour  my  wound  healed, 
my  fever  slaked,  and  whenever  I  beheld  her  flitting  round  my 
bed,  or  watching  over  me,  or  felt  her  cool  fingers  wiping  the 
dew  from  my  brow,  or  took  from  her  hand  my  medicine  or  my 
food,  in  those  moments  the  blood  seemed  to  make  a  new 
struggle  through  my  veins,  and  I  felt  palpably  within  me  a  fresh 
and  delicious  life — a  life  full  of  youth,  and  passion,  and  hope, 
replace  the  vaguer  and  duller  being  which  I  had  hitherto  borne. 

There  are  some  extraordinary  incongruities  in  that  very 
mysterious  thing  sympathy.  One  would  imagine  that,  in  a 
description  of  things  most  generally  interesting  to  all  men,  the 
most  general  interest  would  be  found ;  nevertheless,  I  believe 
few  persons  would  hang  breathless  over  the  progressive  history 
of  a  sick-bed.  Yet  those  gradual  stages  from  danger  to  recovery, 
how  delightfully  interesting  they  are  to  all  who  have  crawled 
from  one  to  the  other !  and  who,  at  some  time  or  other  in  his 
journey  through  that  land  of  diseases — civilized  life — has  not 
taken  that  gentle  excursion ?    "I  would  be  ill  any  day  for  the 


146  DEVEREUX. 

pleasure  of  gettwig  well,"  said  Fontenelle  to  me  one  morning 
with  his  usual  naivete  j  but  who  would  not  be  ill  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  being  ill,  if  he  could  be  tended  by  her  whom  he 
most  loves? 

I  shall  not  therefore  dwell  upon  that  most  delicious  period 
of  my  life — my  sick-bed,  and  my  recovery  from  it.  I  pass  on 
to  a  certain  evening  in  which  I  heard  from  Isora's  lips  the  whole 
of  her  history,  save  what  related  to  her  knowledge  of  the  real 
name  of  one  whose  persecution  constituted  the  little  of  romance 
which  had  yet  mingled  with  her  innocent  and  pure  life.  That 
evening — how  well  I  remember  it !  we  were  alone — still  weak 
and  reduced,  I  lay  upon  the  sofa  beside  the  window,  which 
was  partially  open,  and  the  still  air  of  an  evening  in  the  first 
infancy  of  spring  came  fresh,  and  fraught,  as  it  were,  with  a 
prediction  of  the  glowing  woods,  and  the  reviving  verdure,  to 
my  cheek.  The  stars,  one  by  one,  kindled,  as  if  born  of  Heaven 
and  Twilight,  into  their  nightly  being ;  and,  through  the  vapor 
and  thick  ether  of  the  dense  city,  streamed  their  most  silent 
light,  holy  and  pure,  and  resembling  that  which  the  Divine 
Mercy  sheds  upon  the  gross  nature  of  mankind.  But,  shadowy 
and  calm,  their  rays  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  Isora,  as  she  lay 
on  the  ground  beside  my  couch,  and  with  one  hand  surrendered 
to  my  clasp,  looked  upward  till,  as  she  felt  my  gaze,  she  turned 
her  cheek  blushingly  away.  There  was  quiet  around  and  above 
us  ;  but  beneath  the  window  we  heard  at  times  the  sounds  of 
the  common  earth,  and  then  insensibly  our  hands  knit  into  a 
closer  clasp,  and  we  felt  them  thrill  more  palpably  to  our  hearts  ; 
for  those  sounds  reminded  us  both  of  our  existence  and  of  our 
separation  from  the  great  herd  of  our  race  ! 

What  is  love  but  a  division  from  the  world,  and  a  blending 
of  two  souls,  two  immortalities  divested  of  clay  and  ashes,  into 
one  ?  it  is  a  severing  of  a  thousand  ties  from  whatever  is  harsh 
and  selfish,  in  order  to  knit  them  into  a  single  and  sacred  bond  ! 
Who  loves,  hath  attained  the  anchorite's  secret ;  and  the  her- 
mitage has  become  dearer  than  the  world.  O  respite  from  the 
toil  and  the  curse  of  our  social  and  banded  state,  a  little  interval 
art  thou,  suspended  between  two  eternities — the  Past  and  the 
Future — a  star  that  hovers  between  the  morning  and  the  night, 
sending  through  the  vast  abyss  one  solitary  ray  from  heaven, 
but  too  far  and  faint  to  illumine,  while  it  hallows  the  earth  ! 

There  was  nothing  in  Isora's  tale  which  the  reader  has  not 
already  learnt,  or  conjectured.  She  had  left  her  Andalusian 
home  in  her  early  childhood,  but  she  remembered  it  well,  and 
lingeringly  dwelt  over  it  in  description.     It  was  evident  that 


devereUX.  147 

dttle  in  our  colder  and  less  genial  isle  had  attracted  her  sym- 
pathy, or  wound  itself  into  her  affection.  Nevertheless,  I 
conceive  that  her  naturally  dreamy  and  abstracted  character 
had  received  from  her  residence  and  her  trials  here  much  of 
the  vigor  and  the  heroism  which  it  now  possessed.  Brought 
up  alone,  music,  and  books — few,  though  not  ill-chosen,  for 
Shakspeare  was  one,  and  the  one  which  had  made  upon  her  the 
most  permanent  impression,  and  perhaps  had  colored  her  tem- 
perament with  its  latent,  but  rich  hues  of  poetry — constituted 
her  amusement  and  her  studies. 

But  who  knows  not  that  a  woman's  heart  finds  its  fullest 
occupation  within  itself  ?  There  lies  its  real  study,  and  within 
that  narrow  orbit  the  mirror  of  enchanted  thought  reflects  the 
whole  range  of  earth.  Loneliness  and  meditation  nursed  the 
mood,  which  afterward,  with  Isora,  became  love  itself.  But  I 
do  not  wish  now  so  much  to  describe  her  character,  as  to 
abridge  her  brief  history.  The  first  English  stranger,  of  the 
male  sex,  whom  her  father  admitted  to  her  acquaintance,  was 
Barnard.  This  man  was,  as  I  had  surmised,  connected  with 
him  in  certain  political  intrigues,  the  exact  nature  of  which  she 
did  not  know.  I  continue  to  call  him  by  a  name  which  Isora 
acknowledged  was  fictitious.  He  had  not,  at  first,  by  actual 
declaration,  betrayed  to  her  his  affections  ;  though,  accom- 
panied by  a  sort  of  fierceness  which  early  revolted  her,  they 
soon  became  visible.  On  the  evening  in  which  I  found  her 
stretched  insensible  in  the  garden,  and  had  myself  made  my 
first  confession  of  love,  I  learned  that  he  had  divulged  to  her 
his  passion  and  real  name  :  that  her  rejection  had  thrown  him 
into  a  fierce  despair — that  he  had  accompanied  his  disclosure 
with  the  most  terrible  threats  against  me,  for  whom  he  supposed 
himself  rejected,  and  against  the  safety  of  her  father,  whom  he 
said  a  word  of  his  could  betray  ;  that  her  knowledge  of  his 
power  to  injure  us  !  us — yes,  Isora  then  loved  me,  and  then 
trembled  for  my  safety  ! — had  terrified  and  overcome  her — and 
that  in  the  very  moment  in  which  my  horse's  hoofs  were  heard, 
and  as  the  alternative  of  her  non-compliance,  the  rude  suitor 
swore  deadly  and  sore  vengeance  against  Alvarez  and  myself, 
she  yielded  to  the  oath  he  prescribed  to  her — an  oath  that  she 
would  never  revealed  the  secret  he  had  betrayed  to  her,  or  suf- 
fer me  to  know  who  was  my  real  rival. 

This  was  all  that  I  could  gather  from  her  guarded  confi- 
dence !  he  heard  the  oath,  and  vanished,  and  she  felt  no  more 
till  she  was  in  my  arms  ;  then  it  was  that  she  saw  in  the  love 
and  vengeance  of  my  rival  a  barrier  against  our  union  ;    and 


14^  bEVEREtf}^. 

then  it  was  that  her  generous  fear  for  me  conquered  her  attach- 
ment, and  she  renounced  me.  Their  departure  from  the  cot- 
tage, so  shortly  afterwards,  was  at  her  father's  choice  and  at 
the  instigation  of  Barnard,  for  the  furtherance  of  their  political 
projects  ;  and  it  was  from  Barnard  that  the  money  came  which 
repaid  my  loan  to  Alvarez.  The  same  person,  no  doubt,  pois- 
oned her  father  against  me,  for  henceforth  Alvarez  never  spoke 
of  me  with  that  partiality  he  had  previously  felt.  They  repaired 
to  London  ;  her  father  was  often  absent,  and  often  engaged 
with  men  whom  she  had  never  seen  before  !  he  was  absorbed 
and  uncommunicative,  and  she  was  still  ignorant  of  the  nature 
of  his  schemings  and  designs. 

At  length,  after  an  absence  of  several  weeks,  Barnard  reap- 
peared, and  his  visits  became  constant  ;  he  renewed  his  suit  to 
her  father  as  well  as  herself.  Then  commenced  that  domestic 
persecution,  so  common  in  this  very  tyrannical  world,  which 
makes  us  sicken  to  bear,  and  which,  had  Isora  been  wholly  a 
Spanish  girl,  she,  in  all  probability,  would  never  have  resisted: 
so  much  of  custom  is  there  in  the  very  air  of  a  climate.  But 
she  did  resist  it,  partly  because  she  loved  me — and  loved  me 
more  and  more  for  our  separation — and  partly  because  she 
dreaded  and  abhorred  the  ferocious  and  malignant  passions  of 
my  rival,  far  beyond  any  other  misery  with  which  fortune  could 
threaten  her.  "  Your  father  then  shall  hang  or  starve  !  "  said 
Barnard,  one  day  in  uncontrollable  frenzy,  and  left  her.  He 
did  not  appear  again  at  the  house.  The  Spaniard's  resources, 
fed,  probably,  alone  by  Barnard,  failed.  From  house  to  house 
they  removed,  till  they  were  reduced  to  that  humble  one  in 
which  I  had  found  them.  There,  Barnard  again  sought  them  ; 
there,  backed  by  the  powerful  advocate  of  want,  he  again 
pressed  his  suit,  and  at  that  exact  moment  her  father  was  struck 
with  the  numbing  curse  of  his  disease.  "  There  and  then," 
said  Isora  candidly,  "I  might  have  yielded  at  last,  for  my  poor 
father's  sake,  if  you  had  not  saved  me." 

Once  only  (I  have  before  recorded  the  time),  did  Barnard 
visit  her  in  the  new  abode  I  had  provided  for  her,  and  the  day 
nfter  our  conversation  on  that  event  Isora  watched  and  watched 
for  me,  and  I  did  not  come.  From  the  woman  of  the  house 
she  at  last  learned  the  cause.  "  I  forgot,"  she  said  timidly — 
and  in  conclusion,  "  I  forgot  womanhood,  and  modesty,  and  re- 
,serve  ;  I  forgot  the  customs  of  your  country,  the  decencies  of 
ray  own  ;  I  forgot  everything  in  this  world,  but  you — you  suf- 
fering and  in  danger  ;  my  very  sense  of  existence  seemed  to 
pass  from  me,  and  to  be  supplied  by  a  breathless,  confused,  and 


DEVEREUJi.  ,t40 

overwhelming  sense  of  impatient  agony,  which  ceased  not  till 
I  was  in  your  chamber,  and  by  your  side  !  And — and  now, 
Morton,  do  not  despise  me  for  not  having  considered  more,  and 
loved  you  less." 

"  Despise  you  ! "  I  murmured,  and  I  threw  my  arms  around 
her,  and  drew  her  to  my  breast.  I  felt  her  heart  beat  against 
my  own  ;  those  hearts  spoke,  though  our  lips  were  silent,  and  in 
their  language  seemed  to  say  :  "  We  are  united  now,  and  we 
will  not  part." 

The  starlight,  shining  with  a  mellow  and  deep  stillness,  was 
the  only  light  by  which  we  beheld  each  other — it  shone,  the 
witness  and  the  sanction  of  that  internal  voice,  which  we  owned, 
but  heard  not.  Our  lips  drew  closer  and  closer  together,  till 
they  met  !  and  in  that  kiss  was  the  type  and  promise  of  the 
after  ritual  which  knit  two  spirits  into  one.  Silence  fell 
around  us  like  a  curtain,  and  the  eternal  Night,  with  her  fresh 
dews  and  unclouded  stars,  looked  alone  upon  the  compact  of 
our  hearts — an  emblem  of  the  eternity,  the  freshness,  and  the 
unearthly,  though  awful  brightness  of  the  love  which  it  hal- 
lowed and  beheld  ! 


BOOK  III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Wherein  the  History  makes  great  Progress,  and  is  marked  by  one  important 
Event  in  Human  Life. 

Spinosa  is  said  to  have  loved,  above  all  other  amusements, 
to  put  flies  into  a  spider's  web ;  and  the  struggles  of  the  im- 
prisoned insects  were  wont  to  bear,  in  the  eyes  of  this  grave 
philosopher,  so  facetious  and  hilarious  an  appearance,  that  he 
would  stand  and  laugh  thereat  until  the  tears  "  coursed  one 
another  down  his  innocent  nose."  Now  it  so  happeneth  that 
Spinosa,  despite  the  general  (and,  in  my  most  meek  opinion, 
the  just)  condemnation  of  his  theoretical  tenets,*  was,  in  char- 
acter and  in  nature,  according  to  the  voices  of  all  who  knew 

*  One  ought,  however,  to  be  very  cautious  before  one  condemns  a  philosopher.  The 
master's  opinions  are  generally  pure — it  is  the  conclusions  and  corollaries  of  his  disciples 
that  "  draw  the  honey  forth  that  drives  men  mad."  Schlegel  seems  to  have  studied 
Spinosa  de  fonte,  and  vindicates  him  very  earnestly  from  the  charges  brought  against 
bim — atheism,  etc.— Ed, 


150  DEVEREUX. 

him,  an  exceedingly  kind,  humane,  and  benevolent  biped  ;  and 
it  doth,  therefore,  seem  a  little  strange  unto  us  grave,  sober 
members  of  the  unphilosophical  Many,  that  the  struggles  and 
terrors  of  these  little,  winged  creatures  should  strike  the  good 
subtleist  in  a  point  of  view  so  irresistibly  ludicrous  and  delight- 
ful. But,  for  my  part,  I  believe  that  the  most  imaginative  and  wild 
speculator  beheld  in  the  entangled  flies  nothing  more  than  a  liv- 
ing simile — an  animated  illustration — of  his  own  beloved  vision 
of  Necessity  ;  and  that  he  is  no  more  to  be  considered  cruel 
for  the  complacency  with  which  he  gazed  upon  those  agonized 
types  of  his  system  than  is  Lucan  for  dwelling,  with  a  poet's 
pleasure,  upon  the  many  ingenious  ways  with  which  that  Grand 
Inquisitor  of  Verse  has  contrived  to  vary  the  simple  operation 
of  dying.  To  the  bard,  the  butchered  soldier  was  only  an 
epic  ornament  ;  to  the  philosopher,  the  murdered  fly  was  only 
a  metaphysical  illustration.  For,  without  being  a  Fatalist,  or  a 
disciple  of  Baruch  de  Spinosa,  I  must  confess  that  I  cannot 
conceive  a  greater  resemblance  to  our  human  and  earthly  state 
than  the  penal  predicament  of  the  devoted  flies.  Suddenly  do 
we  find  ourselves  plunged  into  that  Vast  Web — the  World  ;  and 
even  as  the  insect,  when  he  first  undergoeth  a  similar  accident 
of  necessity,  standeth  amazed  and  still,  and  only,  by  little  and 
little,  awakeneth  to  a  full  sense  of  his  situation  ;  so  also  at  the 
first  abashed  and  confounded,  we  remain  on  the  mesh  we  are 
urged  upon,  ignorant,  as  yet,  of  the  toils  around  us,  and  the 
sly,  dark,  immitigable  foe,  that  lieth  in  yonder  nook,  already 
feasting  her  imagination  upon  our  destruction.  Presently  we 
revive — we  stir — we  flutter — and  Fate,  that  foe, — the  old  arch- 
spider,  that  hath  no  moderation  in  her  maiv — now  fixeth  one  of 
her  many  eyes  upon  us,  and  giveth  us  a  partial  glimpse  of  her 
laidly  and  grim  aspect.  We  pause  in  mute  terror — we  gaze 
<ipon  the  ugly  spectre,  so  imperfectly  beheld — the  net  ceases  to 
tremble,  and  the  wily  enemy  draws  gently  back  into  her  nook. 
Now  we  begin  to  breathe  again — we  sound  the  strange  footing 
on  which  we  tread — we  move  tenderly  along  It,  and  again  the 
grisly  monster  advances  on  us  ;  again  we  pause — the  foe  re- 
tires not,  but  remains  stil!,  and  surveyeth  us, — we  see  every 
step  is  accompanied  with  danger — we  look  round  and  above  in 
despair — suddenly  we  feel  within  us  a  new  impulse  and  a  new 
power  ! — we  feel  a  vague  sympathy  with  that  unknown  region 
which  spreads  beyond  \\\\9,  great  net  ; — that  limitless  beyond  hath 
a  mystic  affinity  with  a  part  of  our  own  frame — we  uncon- 
sciously extend  our  wings  (for  the  soul  to  us  is  as  the  wings  to 
the  fly  !) — we  attempt  to  rise— to  soar  above  this  perilous  snare, 


DEVEREUX.  151 

from  which  we  are  unable  to  crawl.  The  old  spider  watcheth 
us  in  self-hugging  quiet,  and,  looking  up  to  our  native  air,  we 
think — now  shall  we  escape  thee. — Out  on  it  !  We  rise  not  a 
hair's  breadth — we  have  the  wings,  it  is  true,  but  the /^^/ are 
fettered.  We  strive  desperately  again — the  whole  web  vibrates 
with  the  effort — it  will  break  beneath  our  strength.  Not  a  jot 
of  it ! — we  cease — we  are  more  entangled  than  ever  !  wings — 
feet — frame — the  foul  slime  is  over  all  ! — where  shall  we  turn  ? 
every  line  of  the  web  leads  to  the  one  den, — we  know  not — we 
care  not — we  grow  blind — confused — lost.  The  eyes  of  our 
hideous  foe  gloat  upon  us — she  whetteth  her  insatiate  maw — 
she  leapeth  towards  us — she  fixeth  her  fangs  upon  us — and  so 
endeth  my  parallel  ! 

But  what  has  this  to  do  with  my  tale  ?  Ay,  Reader,  that  is 
thy  question,  and  I  will  answer  it  by  one  of  mine.  When  thou 
hearest  a  man  moralize  and  preach  of  Fate,  art  thou  not  sure 
that  he  is  going  to  tell  thee  of  some  one  of  his  peculiar  misfor- 
tunes ?  Sorrow  loves  a  parable  as  much  as  mirth  loves  a  jest. 
And  thus  already,  and  from  afar,  I  prepare  thee,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this,  the  third  of  these  portions  into  which  the 
history  of  my  various  and  wild  life  will  be  divided,  for  that 
event  with  which  I  purpose  that  the  said  portion  shall  be  con- 
cluded. 

It  is  now  three  months  after  my  entire  recovery  from  my 
wounds,  and  I  am  married  to  Isora  ! — married — yes,  but  pji- 
vately  married,  and  the  ceremony  is  as  yet  closely  concealed.  1 
will  explain. 

The  moment  Isora's  anxiety  for  me  led  her  across  the  thresh- 
old of  my  house  it  became  necessary  for  her  honor  that  our 
wedding  should  take  place  immediately  on  my  recovery — so 
far  I  was  decided  on  the  measure — now  for  the  method.  Dur- 
ing my  illness,  I  received  a  long  and  most  affectionate  letter 
from  Aubrey,  who  was  then  at  l3evereux  Court, — so  affection- 
ate was  the  heart-breathing  spirit  of  that  letter — so  steeped  in 
all  our  old  household  remembrances  and  boyish  feelings,  that, 
coupled  as  it  was  with  a  certain  gloom  when  he  spoke  of  him- 
self and  of  worldly  sins  and  trials,  it  brought  tears  to  my  eyes 
whenever  I  recurred  to  it ;  and  many  and  many  a  time  after- 
wards, when  I  thought  his  affections  seemed  estranged  from 
me,  I  did  recur  to  it  to  convince  myself  that  I  was  mistaken. 
Shortly  afterwards  I  received  also  a  brief  epistle  from  my 
uncle ;  it  was  as  kind  as  usual,  and  it  mentioned  Aubrey's  re- 
turn to  Devereux  Court  :  "  That  unhappy  boy,"  said  Sir  Will- 
iam, "is  more  than  ever  devoted  to  his  religious  duties  j  nor 


152  DEVEREUX. 

do  I  believe  that  any  priest-ridden  poor  devil,  in  the  dark  ages, 
ever  made  such  use  of  the  scourge  and  the  penance." 

Now,  I  have  before  stated  that  my  uncle  would,  I  knew,  be 
averse  to  my  intended  marriage;  and  on  hearing  that  Aubrey 
was  then  with  him,  I  resolved,  in  replying  to  his  letter,  to  en- 
treat the  former  to  sound  Sir  William  on  the  subject  I  had  most 
at  heart,  and  ascertain  the  exact  nature  and  extent  of  the  op- 
position I  should  have  to  encounter  in  the  step  I  was  resolved 
to  take.  By  the  same  post  I  wrote  to  the  good  old  knight  in  as 
artful  a  strain  as  I  was  able,  dwelling  at  some  length  upon  my 
passion,  upon  the  high  birth,  as  well  as  the  numerous  good 
qualities  of  the  object,  but  mentioning  not  her  name  ;  and  I 
added  everything  that  I  thought  likely  to  enlist  my  uncle's  kind 
and  warm  feelings  on  my  behalf.  These  letters  produced  the 
following  ones  : 

FROM  SIR  WILLIAM    DEVEREUX. 

"  'Sdeath  !  nephew  Morton — but  I  won't  scold  thee,  though 
thou  deservest  it.  Let  me  see,  thou  art  now  scarce  twenty,  and 
thou  talkest  of  marriage,  which  is  the  exclusive  business  of 
middle  age,  as  familiarly  as  '  girls  of  thirteen  do  of  puppy  dogs.' 
Marry! — go  hang  thyself  rather.  Marriage,  my  dear  boy,  is  at 
the  best  a  treacherous  proceeding  :  and  a  friend — a  true  friend 
will  never  counsel  another  to  adopt  it  rashly.  Look  you — I 
have  had  experience  in  these  matters:  and,  I  think,  the  moment 
a  woman  is  wedded  some  terrible  revolution  happens  in  her 
system;  all  her  former  good  qualities  vanish  hey  presto,\'\kQ  eggs 
out  of  a  conjuror's  box, — 'tis  true  they  appear  on  t'other  side 
of  the  box,  the  side  turned  to  other  people,  but  for  the  poor 
husband  they  are  gone  for  ever.  Od'sfish,  Morton,  go  to!  I 
tell  thee  again  that  I  have  had  experience  in  these  matters, 
which  thou  never  hast  had,  clever  as  thou  thinkest  thyself.  If 
now  it  were  a  good  marriage  thou  wert  about  to  make — if  thou 
wert  going  to  wed  power,  and  money,  and  place  at  Court,  why, 
something  might  be  said  for  thee.  As  it  is,  there  is  no  excuse- 
none.  And  I  am  astonished  how  a  boy  of  thy  sense  could  think 
of  such  nonsense.  Birth,  Morton,  what  the  devil  does  that  sig- 
nify, so  long  as  it  is  birth  in  another  country  ?  A  foreign  damsel 
and  a  Spanish  girl,  too,  above  all  others!  'Sdeath,  man,  as  if 
there  was  not  quicksilver  enough  in  the  English  women  for  you, 
you  must  make  a  mercurial  exportation  from  Spain,  must  you! 
Why,  Morton — Morton,  the  ladies  in  that  country  are  prover- 
bial. I  tremble  at  the  very  thought  of  it.  But  as  for  my  con- 
sent, I  never  will  give  it — never;  and  though  I  threaten  thee  not 


DEVEREUX.  153 

with  disinheritance  and  such  like,  yet  I  do  ask  something  in 
return  for  the  great  affection  I  have  always  borne  thee;  and  I 
make  no  doubt  that  thou  wilt  readily  oblige  me  in  such  a  trifle 
as  giving  up  a  mere  Spanish  donna.  So  think  of  her  no  more. 
If  thou  wantest  to  make  love,  there  are  ladies  in  plenty  whom 
thou  needest  not  to  marry.  And  for  my  part,  I  thought  that 
thou  wert  all  in  all  with  the  Lady  Hasselton — Heaven  bless 
her  pretty  face  !  Now  don't  think  I  want  to  scold  thee — and 
don't  think  thine  old  uncle  harsh — God  knows  he  is  not ;  but 
my  dear,  dear  boy,  this  is  quite  out  of  the  question,  and  thou 
must  let  me  hear  no  more  about  it.  The  gout  cripples  me  so 
that  I  must  leave  off.     Even  thine  own  old  uncle, 

"  William  Devereux." 
"  P.  8.  Upon  consideration,  I  think,  my  dear  boy,  that  thou 
must  want  money,  and  thou  art  ever  too  sparing.  Messrs. 
Child,  or  my  goldsmiths  in  Aldersgate,  have  my  orders  to  pay 
to  thy  hand's-writing  whatever  thou  mayest  desire  ;  and  I  do 
hope  that  thou  wilt  now  want  nothing  to  make  thee  merry  withal. 
Why  dost  thou  not  write  a  comedy  ?  is  it  not  the  mode  still?" 

LETTER    FROM    AUBREY    DEVEREUX. 

"  I  have  sounded  my  uncle,  dearest  Morton,  according  to 
your  wishes;-  and  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  have  found  him  inexor- 
able. He  was  very  much  hurt  by  your  letter  to  him,  and  declared 
he  should  write  to  you  forthwith  upon  the  subject.  I  represented 
to  him  all  that  you  have  said  upon  the  virtues  of  your  intended 
bride;  and  I  also  insisted  upon  your  clear  judgment  and  strong 
sense  upon  most  points,  being  a  sufficient  surety  for  your  pru- 
dence upon  this.  But  you  know  the  libertine  opinions,  and 
the  depreciating  judgment  of  women,  entertained  by  my  poor 
uncle  ;  and  he  would,  I  believe,  have  been  less  displeased  with 
the  heinous  crime  of  an  illicit  connexion,  than  the  amiable  weak- 
ness of  an  imprudent  marriage — I  might  say  of  any  marriage, 
until  it  was  time  to  provide  heirs  to  the  estate." 

Here  Aubrey,  in  the  most  affectionate  and  earnest  manner, 
broke  off  to  point  out  to  me  the  extreme  danger  to  my  interests 
that  it  would  be  to  disoblige  my  uncle;  who,  despite  his  general 
kindness,  would,  upon  a  disagreement  on  so  tender  a  matter  as 
his  sore  point,  and  his  most  cherished  hobby,  consider  my  dis- 
obedience as  a  personal  affront.  He  also  recalled  to  me  all  that 
my  unclr  had  felt  and  done  for  me;  and  insisted,  at  all  events, 
upon  the  absolute  duty  of  my  delaying,  even  though  I  should 
not  break  off,  the  intended  measure.  Upon  these  points  he 
enlarged  much  and  eloquently;  and  this  part  of  his  letter  cer- 


154  DEVEREUX. 

tainly  left  no  cheering  or  comfortable  impression  upon  my 
mind. 

Now  my  good  uncle  knew  as  much  of  love  as  L.  Mummius 
did  of  the  fine  arts,*  and  it  was  impossible  to  persuade  him 
that  if  one  wanted  to  indulge  the  tender  passion,  one  woman 
would  not  do  exactly  as  well  as  another,  provided  she  were 
equally  pretty.  I  knew  therefore  that  he  was  incapable,  on  the 
one  hand,  of  understanding  my  love  for  Isora,  or,  on  the  other, 
of  acknowledging  her  claims  upon  me.  I  had  not,  of  course, 
mentioned  to  him  the  generous  imprudence  which,  on  the  news 
of  my  wound,  had  brought  Isora  to  my  house:  for  if  I  had  done 
so,  my  uncle,  with  the  eye  of  a  courtier  of  Charles  II.,  would 
only  have  seen  the  advantage  to  be  derived  from  the  impropriety, 
not  the  gratitude  due  to  the  devotion;  neither  had  I  mentioned 
this  circumstance  to  Aubrey, — it  seemed  to  me  too  delicate  for 
any  written  communication;  and  therefore,  in  his  advice  to  delay 
my  marriage,  he  was  unaware  of  the  necessity  which  rendered 
the  advice  unavailing.  Now  then  was  I  in  this  dilemma,  either 
to  marry,  and  that  znsfan^er,  and  so,  seemingly,  with  the  most  hasty 
and  the  most  insolent  indecorum,  incense,  wound,  and  in  his 
interpretation  of  the  act,  contemn  one  whom  I  loved  as  I  loved 
my  uncle, — or.to  delay  the  marriage,to  separate  from  Isora,and  to 
leave  my  future  wife  to  the  malignant  consequences  that  would 
necessarily  be  drawn  from  a  sojourn  of  weeks  in  my  house.  This 
fact  there  was  no  chance  of  concealing;  servants  have  more 
tongues  than  Argus  had  eyes,  and  my  youthful  extravagance  had 
filled  my  whole  house  with  those  pests  of  society.  The  latter 
measure  was  impossible,  the  former  was  most  painful.  Was 
there  no  third  way  ? — there  was  that  of  a  private  marriage.  This 
obviated  not  every  evil;  but  it  removed  many;  it  satisfied  my 
impatient  love,  it  placed  Isora  under  a  sure  protection,  it  secured 
and  established  her  honor  the  moment  the  ceremony  should  be 
declared,  and  it  avoided  the  seeming  iogratitude  and  indelicacy 
of  disobeying  my  uncle,  without  an  effort  of  patience  to  appease 
him.  I  should  have  time  and  occasion  then,  I  thought,  for 
soothing  and  persuading  him,  and  ultimately  winning  tliat  con- 
sent which  I  firmly  trusted  I  should  sooner  or  later  extract  from 
his  kindness  of  heart. 

That  some  objections  existed  to  this  mediatory  plan  was 
true  enough  :  those  objections  related  to  Isora  rather  than  to 
myself,  and  she  was  the  first,  on  my  hinting  at  the  proposal,  to 
overcome  its  difficulties.     The  leading  feature  in  Isora's  char- 

*  A  Roman  consul,  who,  removing  the  most  celebrated  remains  of  Grecian  antiquity  to 
Kome.  assured  the  persons  charged  with  ;onveying  them  that  if  they  injured  any,  thw 
fliould  make  others  to  replace  theni* 


GEVEfeEUJC:.  155 

acter  was  generosity;  and,  in  truth,  I  know  not  a  quality  more 
dangerous,  either  to  man  or  woman.  Herself  was  invariably 
the  last  human  being  whom  she  seemed  to  consider  ;  and  no 
sooner  did  she  ascertain  what  measure  was  the  most  prudent 
for  me  to  adopt,  than  it  immediately  became  that  upon  which 
she  insisted.  Would  it  have  been  possible  for  me — man  of 
pleasure  and  of  the  world  as  I  was  thought  to  be — no,  my  good 
uncle,  though  it  went  to  my  heart  to  wound  thee  so  secretly — 
it  would  not  have  been  possible  for  me,  even  if  I  had  not  coined 
my  whole  nature  into  love  :  even  if  Isora  had  not  been  to  me, 
what  one  smile  of  Isora's  really  was — it  would  not  have  been 
possible  to  have  sacrificed  so  noble  and  so  divine  a  heart,  and 
made  myself,  in  that  sacrifice,  a  wretch  for  ever.  No,  my  good 
uncle  I  could  not  have  made  that  surrender  to  thy  reason,  much 
less  to  thy  prejudices.  But  if  I  have  not  done  great  injustice 
to  the  knight's  character,  I  doubt  whether  even  the  youngest 
reader  will  not  forgive  him  for  a  want  of  sympathy  with  one 
feeling,  when  they  consider  how  susceptible  that  charming  old 
man  was  to  all  others. 

And  herewith  I  could  discourse  most  excellent  wisdom  upon 
that  most  mysterious  passion  of  love.  I  could  show,  by  trac- 
ing its  causes,  and  its  inseparable  connection  with  the  imagi- 
nation, that  it  is  only  in  certain  states  of  society,  as  well  as  ii> 
certain  periods  of  life,  that  love — real,  pure,  high  love  can  be 
born.  Yea,  I  could  prove,  to  the  nicety  of  a  very  problem, 
that  in  the  court  of  Charles  II.  it  would  have  been  as  impos- 
possible  for  such  a  feeling  to  find  root,  as  it  would  be  for  myr- 
tle trees  to  effloresce  from  a  Duvillier  periwig.  And  we  are 
not  to  expect  a  man,  however  tender  and  affectionate  he  may 
be,  to  sympathize  with  that  sentiment  in  another,  which,  from 
the  accidents  of  birth  and  position,  nothing  short  of  a  miracle 
could  ever  have  produced  in  himself. 

We  were  married  then  in  private  by  a  Catholic  priest.  St. 
John,  and  one  old  lady  who  had  been  my  father's  godmother — 
for  I  wished  for  a  female  assistant  in  the  ceremony,  and  this 
old  lady  could  tell  no  secrets,  for,  being  excessively  deaf,  no- 
body ever  talked  to  her,  and  indeed  she  scarcely  ever  went 
abroad — were  the  sole  witnesses.  I  took  a  small  house  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  London  ;  it  was  surrounded  on  all 
sides  with  a  high  wall  which  defied  alike  curiosity  and  attack. 
This  was,  indeed,  the  sole  reason  which  had  induced  me  to  pre- 
fer it  to  many  more  gaudy  or  more  graceful  dwellings.  But 
within  I  had  furnished  it  with  every  luxury  that  wealth,  the 
most  lavish  and  unsp'aring,  could  procure.     Thither,  under  an 


156  DEVEREtX. 

assumed  name,  I  brought  my  bride,  and  there  was  the  greater 
part  of  my  time  spent.  The  people  I  had  placed  in  the  house 
believed  I  was  a  rich  merchant,  and  this  accounted  for  my  fre- 
quent absences — (absences  which  Prudence  rendered  neces- 
sary) for  the  wealth  which  I  lavished,  and  for  the  precautions 
of  bolt,  bar,  and  wall,  which  they  imagined  the  result  of  com- 
mercial caution. 

Oh  the  intoxication  of  that  sweet  Elysium,  that  Tadmor  in 
life's  desert — the  possession  of  the  one  whom  we  have  first 
loved  !  It  is  as  if  poetry,  and  music,  and  light,  and  the  fresh 
breath  of  flowers,  were  all  blent  into  one  being,  and  from  that 
being  rose  our  existence  !  It  is  content  made  rapture — noth- 
ing to  wish  for,  yet  everything  to  feel !  Was  that  air — the  air 
which  I  had  breathed  hitherto  ?  that  earth — the  earth  which  I 
had  hitherto  beheld?  No,  my  heart  dwelt  in  a  new  world,  and 
all  these  motley  and  restless  senses  were  melted  into  one  sense — 
deep,  silent,  fathomless  delight  ! 

Well,  too  much  of  this  species  of  love  is  not  fit  for  a  world- 
ly tale,  and  I  will  turn,  for  the  reader's  relief,  to  worldly  affec- 
tions. From  my  first  reunion  with  Isora,  I  had  avoided  all  the 
former  objects  and  acquaintances  in  which  my  time  had  been 
so  charmingly  employed.  Tarleton  was  the  first  to  suffer  by 
my  new  pursuit ;  "What  has  altered  you?"  said  he;  "you 
drink  not,  neither  do  you  play.  The  women  say  you  are  grown 
duller  than  a  Norfolk  parson,  and  neither  the  Puppet-Show,  nor 
the  Water-Theatre,  the  Spring  Gardens,  nor  the  Ring,  Wills's, 
nor  the  Kit-Cat,  the  Mulberry  Garden,  nor  the  New  Exchange, 
witness  any  longer  your  homage  and  devotion. — What  has  come 
over  you  ? — speak  !  " 

"  Apathy  ! " 

"  Ah  ! — I  understand — you  are  tired  of  these  things  ;  pish, 
man  ! — go  down  into  the  country,  the  green  fields  will  revive 
thee,  and  send  thee  back  to  London  a  new  man  !  One  would 
indeed  find  the  town  intolerably  dull,  if  the  country  were  not, 
happily,  a  thousand  times  duller, — go  to  the  country.  Count, 
or  I  shall  drop  your  friendship." 

"  Drop  it !  "  said  I,  yawning,  and  Tarleton  took  pet,  and  did 
as  I  desired  him.  Now  had  I  got  rid  of  my  friend  as  easily  as 
I  had  found  him, — a  matter  that  would  not  have  been  so  read- 
ily accomplished  hadnot  Mr.  Tarleton  owed  me  certain  moneys, 
concerning  which,  from  the  moment  he  had  **  dropped  my 
friendship,"  good-breeding  effectually  prevented  his  saying  a 
single  syllable  to  me  ever  after.  There  is  no  knowing  the  bless* 
ings  of  money  until  one  has  learnt  to  manage  it  properly. 


DEVEREUX.  I57 

'  So  miicli,  then,  for  the  friend  ;  now  for  the  mistress.  Lady 
Hasselton  had,  as  Tarleton  hinted  before,  resolved  to  play  me 
a  trick  of  spite  ;  the  reasons  of  our  rupture  really  were,  as  1  had 
istated  to  Tarleton  the,  mighty  effects  of  little  things.  She  lived 
in  a  sea  of  trifles,  and  she  was  desjaerately  angry  if  her  lover 
was  not  always  sailing  a  pleasure-boat  in  the  same  ocean.  Now 
this  was  expecting  too  much  from  me,  and,  afier  twisting  our 
silken  strings  of  attachment  into  all  manner  of  fantastic  forms, 
we  fell  fairly  out  one  evening  and  broke  the  little  ligatures  in 
two.  No  sooner  had  I  quarrelled  with  Tarleton,  than  Lady 
Hasselton  received  him  in  my  place,  and  a  week  afterwards  I 
was  favored  with  an  anonymous  letter,  informing  me  of  the  vio- 
lent passion  which  a  certain  datne  de  la  cour  had  conceived  for 
me,  and  requesting  me  to  meet  her  at  an  appointed  place.  I 
looked  twice  over  the  letter,  and  discovered  in  one  corner  of 
it,  two  gs'  peculiar  to  the  calligraphy  of  Lady  Hasselton,  though 
the  rest  of  the  letter  (bad  spelling  excepted)  was  pretty  de- 
cently disguised.  Mr.  Fielding  was  with  me  at  the  time  ; 
"  What  disturbs  you  ?  "  said  he,  adjusting  his  knee-buckles. 

"Read  it !"  said  I,  handing  him  the  letter. 

"  Body  of  me,  you  are  a  lucky  dog ! "  cried  the  beau.  "You 
will  hasten  thither  on  the  wings  of  love." 

"Not  a  whit  of  it,"  said  1 ;  "I  suspect  that  it  comes  from  a 
rich  old  widow,  whom  I  hate  mortally." 

"  A  rich  old  widow  ! "  repeated  Mr.  Fielding,  to  whose  eyes 
there  was  something  very  piquant  in  a  jointure,  and  who  thought 
consequently  that  there  were  few  virginal  flowers  equal  to  a 
widow's  weeds.  "A  rich  old  widow — you  are  right.  Count,  you 
are  right.  Don't  go,  don't  think  of  it.  I  cannot  abide  those 
depraved  creatures.  Widow,  indeed — quite  an  affront  to  your 
gallantry  ! " 

"  Very  true,"  said  I.     "Suppose  you  supply  my  place?" 

"I'd  sooner  be  shot  first,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  taking  his  de- 
parture, and  begging  me  for  the  letter  to  wrap  some  sugar 
plums  in. 

Need  I  add,  that  Mr.  Fielding  repaired  to  the  place  of  as- 
signation, where  he  received,  in  the  shape  of  a  hearty  drubbing, 
the  kind  favors  intended  for  me  ?  The  story  was  now  left  for 
me  to  tell,  not  for  the  Lady  Hasselton — and  that  makes  all  the 
difference  in  the  manner  a  story  is  told — me  narrante,  it-is  de 
tc  fabula  narratur — te  narrante,  and  it  is  de  trie  fabula,  etc.  Poor 
Lady  Hasselton  !  to  be  laughed  at,  and  have  Tarleton  for  a 
lover ! 

I  have  gone  back  somewhat  in  the  progress  of  my  history,  in 


I5S  DEVEREUX. 

order  to  make  the  above  honorable  mention  of  my  friend  and 
my  mistress,  thinking  it  due  to  their  own  merits,  and  thinking 
it  may  also  be  instructive  to  young  gentlemen,  who  have  not  yet 
seen  the  world,  to  testify  the  exact  nature  and  the  probable 
duration  of  all  the  loves  and  friendships  they  are  likely  to  find 
in  that  Great  Monmouth  Street  of  glittering  and  of  damaged 
affections  !     I  now  resume  the  order  of  narration. 

I  wrote  to  Aubrey,  thanking  him  for  his  intercession,  but  con- 
cealing, till  we  met,  the  measure  I  had  adopted.  I  wrote  also 
to  my  uncle,  assuring  him  that  I  would  take  an  early  oppor- 
tunity of  hastening  to  Devereux  Court,  and  conversing  with  him 
on  the  subject  of  his  letter.  And  after  an  interval  of  some 
weeks,  I  received  the  two  following  answers  from  my  corres- 
pondents :  the  latter  arrived  several  days  after  the  former. 

FROM   AUBREY  DEVEREUX. 

"  I  am  glad  to  understand  from  your  letter,  unexplanatory  as 
it  is,  that  you  have  followed  my  advice.  I  will  shortly  write  to 
you  more  at  large ;  at  present  I  am  on  the  eve  of  my  departure 
for  the  North  of  England,  and  have  merely  time  to  assure  you 
of  my  affection.  "Aubrey  Devereux." 

"  P.  S.  Gerald  is  in  London — have  you  seen  him  ?  Oh,  this 
world  !  this  world  !  how  it  clings  to  us,  despite  our  education — 
our  wishes,  our  conscience,  our  knowledge  of  the  Dread  Here- 
after ! " 

LETTER  FROM  SIR  WILLIAM  DEVEREUX. 

"  My  Dear  Nephew  : 

"  Thank  thee  for  thy  letter,  and  the  new  plays  thou  sentest  me 
down,  and  that  droll  new  paper,  the  Spectator :  it  is  a  pretty 
shallow  thing  enough, — though  it  is  not  so  racy  as  Rochester  or 
little  Sid  would  have  made  it ;  but  I  thank  thee  for  it,  because 
it  shows  thou  wast  not  angry  with  thine  old  uncle  for  opposing 
thee  on  thy  love  whimsies  (in  which  most  young  men  are  dread- 
fully obstinate),  since  thou  didst  provide  so  kindly  for  his  amuse- 
ment. Well,  but,  Morton,  I  hope  thou  hast  got  that  crotchet 
clear  out  of  thy  mind,  and  prithee  now  dorCt  talk  of  it  when  thou 
comest  down  to  see  me.  I  hate  conversations  on  marriage  more 
than  a  boy  does  flogging — od'sfish,  I  do.  So  you  must  humor 
me  on  that  point ! 

"Aubrey  has  left  me  again,  and  I  am  quite  alone — not  that  I 
was  much  better  off  when  he  was  here,  for  he  was  wont,  of  late, 
to  shun  my  poor  room  like  a  '  lazar  house,'  and  when  I  spoke  to 
his  mother  about  it,  she  muttered  something  about  'example/ 


DEVEREUX.  159 

and '  corrupting.'  'Sdeath,  Morton,  is  your  old  uncle,  who  loves 
all  living  things,  down  to  poor  Ponto  the  dog,  the  sort  of  man 
whose  example  corrupts  youth  ?  As  for  thy  mother,  she  grows 
more  solitary  every  day  ;  and  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  am 
not  so  fond  of  strange  faces  as  I  used  to  be.  'Tis  a  new  thing 
for  me  to  be  avoided  and  alone.  Why,  I  remember  even  little 
Sid,  who  had  as  much  venom  as  most  men,  once  said  it  was  im- 
possible to — Fie  now — see  if  I  was  not  going  to  preach  a  ser- 
mon from  a  text  in  favor  of  myself  !  But  come,  Morton,  come, 
I  long  for  your  face  again  ;  it  is  not  so  soft  as  Aubrey's,  nor  so 
regular  as  Gerald's,  but  it  is  twice  as  kind  as  either.  Come, 
before  it  is  too  late  ;  I  feel  myself  going  ;  and,  to  tell  thee  a  se- 
cret, the  doctors  tell  me  I  may  not  last  many  months  longer. 
Come,  and  laugh  once  more  at  the  old  knight's  stories.  Come, 
and  show  him  that  there  is  still  some  one  not  too  good  to  love 
him.  Come,  and  I  will  tell  thee  a  famous  thing  of  old  Rowley, 
which  I  am  too  ill  and  too  sad  to  tell  thee  now. 

"Wm.  Devereux." 

Need  I  say  that  upon  receiving  this  letter,  I  resolved,  without 
any  delay,  to  set  out  for  Devereux  Court  ?  I  summoned  Des- 
marais  to  me  ;  he  answered  not  my  call :  he  was  from  home — an 
unfrequent  occurrence  with  the  necessitarian  valet.  I  waited 
his  return,  which  was  not  for  some  hours,  in  order  to  give  him 
sundry  orders  for  my  departure.  The  exquisite  Desmarais 
hemmed  thrice — "Will  Monsieur  be  so  very  kind  as  to  excuse 
my  accompanying  him  ?"  said  he,  with  his  usual  air  and  tone  of 
obsequious  respect. 

"  And  why  ? "  The  valet  explained.  A  relation  of  his  was  in 
England  only  for  a  few  days — the  philosopher  was  most  anxious 
to  enjoy  his  society — a  pleasure  which  fate  might  not  again 
allow  him. 

Though  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  man's  services,  and 
did  not  like  to  lose  him  even  for  a  time,  yet  I  could  not  refuse 
his  request ;  and  I  therefore  ordered  another  of  my  servants  to 
supply  his  place.  This  change,  however,  determined  me  to 
adopt  a  plan  which  I  had  before  meditated,  viz.  the  conveying 
of  my  own  person  to  Devereux  Court  on  horseback,  and  send- 
ing my  servant  with  my  luggage  in  my  post-chaise.  The  eques- 
trian mode  of  travelling  is,  indeed  to  this  day,  the  one  most 
pleasing  to  me  ;  and  the  reader  will  find  me  pursuing  it  many 
years  afterwards,  and  to  the  same  spot. 

I  might  as  well  observe  here  that  1  had  never  entrusted  Des- 
marais, no,  nor  one  of  my  own  servants^  with  the  secret  of  my 


l6o  DEVEREUX. 

marriage  with,  or  my  visits  to,  Isora.  I  am  a  very  fastidious 
person  on  tliose  matters,  and  of  all  confidants,  even  in  the  most 
trifling  affairs,  I  do  most  eschew  those  by  whom  we  have  the 
miserable  honor  to  be  served. 

In  order,  then,  to  avoid  having  my  horse  brought  me  to 
Isora's  house  by  any  of  these  menial  spies,  I  took  the  steed 
which  I  had  selected  for  my  journey,  and  rode  to  Isora's,  with 
the  intention  of  spending  the  evening  there,  and  thence  com- 
mencing my  excursion  with  the  morning  light. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Love — Parting — a  Death  Bed.  After  all  Human  Nature  is  a  beautiful 
Fabric  ;  and  even  its  Imperfections  are  not  odious  to  him  who  has  studied 
the  Science  of  its  Architecture,  and  formed  a  reverent  Estimate  of  its 
Creator. 

It  is  a  noticeable  thing  how  much  fear  increases  love.  I 
mean — for  the  aphorism  requires  explanation — how  much  we 
love,  in  proportion  to  our  fear  of  losing  (or  even  to  our  fear  of 
injury  done  to)  the  beloved  object.  'Tis  an  instance  of  the 
reaction  of  the  feelings — the  love  produces  the  fear,  and  the 
fear  reproduces  the  love.  This  is  one  reason,  among  many, 
why  women  love  so  much  more  tenderly  and  anxiously  than 
we  do  ;  and  it  is  also  one  reason  among  many,  why  frequent 
absences  are,  in  all  stages  of  love,  the  most  keen  exciters  of  the 
passion.  I  never  breathed,  away  from  Isora,  without  trembling 
for  her  safety.  I  trembled  lest  this  Barnard,  if  so  I  should 
still  continue  to  call  her  persecutor,  should  again  discover  and 
molest  her.  Whenever  (and  that  was  almost  daily)  I  rode  to 
the  quiet  and  remote  dwelling  I  had  procured  her,  my  heart 
beat  so  vehemently,  and  my  agitation  was  so  intense,  that  on 
arriving  at  the  gate  I  have  frequently  been  unable,  for  several 
minutes,  to  demand  admittance.  There  was,  therefore,  in  the 
mysterious  danger  which  ever  seemed  to  hang  over  Isora,  a 
perpetual  irritation  to  a  love  otherwise  but  little  inclined  to 
slumber  ;  and  this  constant  excitement  took  away  from  the 
torpor  into  which  domestic  affection  too  often  languishes,  and 
increased  my  passion  even  while  it  diminished  my  happiness. 

On  my  arrival  now  at  Isora's,  I  found  her  already  stationed 
at  the  window,  watching  for  my  coming.  How  her  dark  eyes 
lit  into  lustre  when  they  saw  me  !  How  the  rich  blood  mantled 
up  under  the  soft  cheek  which  feeling  had  refined  of  late  into 
A  paler  hue  than  it  was  wont,  when  I  first  gazed  upon  it,  tp 


DEVEREUX.  l6l 

wear  !  Then  how  sprung  forth  her  light  step  to  meet  me  ! 
How  trembled  her  low  voice  to  welcome  me  !  How  spoke, 
from  every  gesture  of  her  graceful  form,  the  anxious,  joyful, 
all-animating  gladness  of  her  heart  !  It  is  a  melancholy  pleas- 
ure to  the  dry,  harsh,  after-thoughts  of  later  life,  to  think  one 
has  been  thus  loved  ;  and  one  marvels,  when  one  considers 
what  one  is  now,  how  it  could  have  ever  been  !  That  love  of 
ours  was  never  made  for  after-years  !  It  could  never  have 
flowed  into  the  common  and  cold  channel  of  ordinary  affairs  ! 
It  could  never  have  been  mingled  with  the  petty  cares  and  the 
low  objects  with  which  the  loves  of  all  who  live  long  together 
in  this  sordid  and  earthly  earth  are  sooner  or  later  blended  ! 
We  could  not  have  spared  to  others  an  atom  of  the  great 
wealth  of  our  affection.  We  were  misers  of  every  coin  in  that 
boundless  treasury.  It  would  have  pierced  me  to  the  soul  to 
have  seen  Isora  smile  upon  another.  I  know  not  even,  had  we 
had  children,  if  I  should  not  have  been  jealous  of  my  child  ! 
Was  this  selfish  love  ?  Yes,  it  was  intensely,  wholly  selfish ; 
but  it  was  a  love  made  so  only  by  its  excess  ;  nothing  selfish 
on  a  smaller  scale  polluted  it.  There  was  not  on  earth  that 
which  the  one  would  not  have  forfeited  at  the  lightest  desire 
of  the  other.  So  utterly  were  happiness  and  Isora  entwined 
together  that  I  could  form  no  idea  of  the  one  with  Avhich  the 
other  was  not  connected.  Was  this  love  made  for  the  many 
and  miry  roads  through  which  man  must  travel  ?  Was  it  made 
for  age,  or,  worse  than  age,  for  those  cool,  ambitious,  scheming 
years  that  we  call  mature,  in  which  all  the  luxuriance  and 
verdure  of  things  are  pared  into  tame  shapes  that  mimic  life, 
but  a  life  that  is  estranged  from  nature,  in  which  art  is  the  only 
beauty,  and  regularity  the  only  grace  ?  No,  in  my  heart  of 
hearts,  I  feel  that  our  love  was  not  meant  for  the  stages  of  life 
through  which  I  have  already  passed  ;  it  would  have  made  us 
miserable  to  see  it  fritter  itself  away,  and  to  remember  what  it 
once  was.  Better  as  it  is !  better  to  mourn  over  the  green 
bough  than  to  look  upon  the  sapless  stem.  You  who  now 
glance  over  these  pages,  are  you  a  mother  ?  if  so,  answer  me 
one  question — Would  you  not  rather  that  the  child  whom  you 
have  cherished  with  your  soul's  care,  whom  you  have  nurtured 
at  your  bosom,  whose  joys  your  eyes  have  sparkled  to  behold, 
whose  lightest  grief  you  have  wept  to  witness,  as  you  would 
have  wept  not  for  your  own  ;  over  whose  pure  and  unvexed 
sleep  you  have  watched  and  prayed,  and,  as  it  lay  before  you 
thus  still  and  unconscious  of  your  vigil,  have  shaped  out,  oh, 
such  bright  hopes  for  its  future  lot ;  would  you  not  rather  that. 


l62  DEVEREUX. 

while  thus  young  and  innocent,  not  a  care  tasted,  not  a  crime 
incurred,  it  went  down  at  once  into  the  dark  grave  ?  Would 
you  not  rather  suffer  this  grief,  bitter  though  it  be,  than  watch 
the  predestined  victim  grow  and  ripen,  and  wind  itself  more 
and  more  around  your  heart,  and  when  it  is  of  full  and  mature 
age,  and  you  yourself  are  stricken  by  years,  and  can  form 
no  new  ties  to  replace  the  old  that  are  severed,  when  woes 
have  already  bowed  the  darling  of  your  hope,  whom  woe 
never  was  to  touch,  when  sins  have  already  darkened  the 
bright,  seraph,  unclouded  heart  which  sin  never  was  to  dim  ; 
behold  it  sink  day  by  day  altered,  diseased,  decayed,  into  the 
tomb  which  its  childhood  had  in  vain  escaped  ?  Answer  me  : 
would  not  the  earlier  fate  be  far  gentler  than  the  last  ?  And  if 
you  have  known  and  wept  over  that  early  tomb — if  you  have 
seen  the  infant  flower  fade  away  from  the  green  soil  of  your 
affections — if  you  have  missed  the  bounding  step,  and  the 
laughing  eye,  and  the  winning  mirth  which  made  this  sterile 
world  a  perpetual  holiday — Mother  of  the  Lost,  if  you  have 
known,  and  you  still  pine  for  these,  answer  me  yet  again  ! — Is 
it  not  a  comfort,  even  while  you  mourn,  to  think  of  all  that 
that  breast,  now  so  silent,  has  escaped  ?  The  cream,  the 
sparkle,  the  elixir  of  life,  it  had  already  quaffed ;  is  it  not 
sweet  to  think  it  shunned  the  wormwood  and  the  dregs  ? 
Answer  me,  even  though  the  answer  be  in  tears !  Mourner, 
your  child  was  to  you  what  my  early  and  only  love  was  to  me ; 
and  could  you  pierce  down,  down  through  a  thousand  fathom 
of  ebbing  thought,  to  the  far  depths  of  my  heart,  you  would 
there  behold  a  sorrow  and  a  consolation,  that  have  something  in 
unison  with  your  own  ! 

When  the  light  of  the  next  morning  broke  into  our  room, 
Isora  was  still  sleeping.  Have  you  ever  observed  that  the 
young,  seen  asleep  and  by  the  morning  light,  seem  much 
younger  even  than  they  are  ?  partly  because  the  air  and  the 
light  sleep  of  dawn  bring  a  fresher  bloom  to  the  cheek,  and 
partly,  because  the  careless  negligence  and  the  graceful  postures 
exclusively  appropriated  to  youth,  are  forbidden  by  custom  and 
formality  through  the  day,  and  developing  themselves  uncon- 
sciously in  sleep,  they  strike  the  eye  like  the  ease  and  freedom 
of  childhood  itself.  There,  as  I  looked  upon  Isora's  tranquil 
and  most  youthful  beauty,  over  which  circled  and  breathed  an 
ineffable  innocence — even  as  the  finer  and  subtler  air,  which 
was  imagined  by  those  dreamy  bards  who  kindled  the  soft 
creations  of  naiad  and  of  nymph,  to  float  around  a  goddess — I 
could  not  believe  that  aught  evil  awaited  one  for  whom  infancy 


DEVEREUX.  163 

itself  seemed  to  linger, — linger  as  if  no  elder  shape  and  less 
delicate  hue  were  meet  to  be  the  garment  of  so  much  guileless- 
ness  and  tenderness  of  heart.  I  felt,  indeed,  while  I  bent  over 
her,  and  her  regular  and  quiet  breath  came  upon  my  cheek, 
that  feeling  which  is  exactly  the  reverse  to  a  presentiment  of 
ill.  I  felt  as  if,  secure  in  her  own  purity,  she  had  nothing  to 
dread,  so  that  even  the  pang  of  parting  was  lost  in  the  con- 
fidence which  stole  over  me  as  I  then  gazed. 

I  rose  gently,  went  to  the  next  room  and  dressed  myself — I 
heard  my  horse  neighing  beneath,  as  the  servant  walked  him 
lazily  to  and  fro.  I  re-entered  the  bed-chamber,  in  order  to 
take  leave  of  Isora  ;  she  was  already  up.  "  What  !  "  said  I, 
"it  is  but  three  minutes  since  I  left  you  asleep,  and  I  stole 
away  as  gently  as  time  does  when  with  you." 

"Ah!"  said  Isora,  smiling  and  blushing  too,  "but  for  my 
part,  I  think  there  is  an  instinct  to  know,  even  if  all  the  senses 
were  shut  up,  whether  the  one  we  love  is  with  us  or  not.  The 
moment  you  left  me,  I  felt  it  at  once,  even  in  sleep,  and  I  woke. 
But  you  will  not,  no,  you  will  not  leave  me  yet !  " 

I  think  I  see  Isora  now,  as  she  stood  by  the  window  which 
she  had  opened,  with  a  woman's  minute  anxiety,  to  survey  even 
the  aspect  of  the  clouds,  and  beseech  caution  against  the 
treachery  of  the  skies.  I  think  I  see  her  now,  as  she  stood  the 
moment  after  I  had  torn  myself  from  her  embrace,  and  had 
looked  back,  as  I  reached  the  door,  for  one  parting  glance — 
her  eyes  all  tenderness,  her  lips  parted,  and  quivering  with  the 
attempt  to  smile — the  long,  glossy  ringlets  (through  whose  raven 
hue  \\\Q  purpureum  lumen  broke  like  an  imprisoned  sunbeam), 
straying  in  dishevelled  beauty  over  her  transparent  neck  ;  the 
throat  bent  in  mute  despondency  ;  the  head  drooping  ;  the 
arms  half  extended,  and  dropping  gradually  as  my  steps  de- 
parted ;  the  sunken,  absorbed  expression  of  face,  form,  and 
gesture,  so  steeped  in  the  very  bitterness  of  dejection — all  are 
before  me  now,  sorrowful,  and  lovely  in  sorrow,  as  they  were 
beheld  years  ago,  by  the  gray,  cold,  comfortless  light  of 
morning  ! 

"  God  bless  you — my  own,  own  love,"  I  said  ;  and  as  my 
look  lingered,  I  added,  with  a  full  but  an  assured  heart  ;  "  and 
He  will  I  "  I  tarried  no  more — I  flung  myself  on  my  horse, 
and  rode  on  as  if  I  were  speeding  to,  and  not  from,  my  bride. 

The  noon  was  far  advanced,  as,  the  day  after  I  left  Isora,  I 
found  myself  entering  the  park  in  which  Devereux  Court  is 
situated.  I  did  not  enter  by  one  of  the  lodges,  but  through  a 
private  gate.     My  horse  was  thoroughly  jaded  ;  for  the  distance 


164  DEVEREUX. 

I  had  come  was  great,  and  I  had  ridden  rapidly  ;  and  as  I  came 
into  the  park,  I  dismounted,  and  throwing  the  rein  over  my 
arm,  proceeded  slowly  on  foot.  I  was  passing  through  a  thick, 
long  plantation,  which  belted  the  park  and  in  which  several 
walks  and  rides  had  been  cut,  when  a  man  crossed  the  same 
road  which  I  took,  at  a  little  distance  before  me.  He  was 
looking  on  the  ground,  and  appeared  wrapt  in  such  earnest 
meditation  that  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  me.  But  I  had  seen 
enough  of  him,  in  that  brief  space  of  time,  to  feel  convinced 
that  it  was  Montreuil  whom  I  beheld.  What  brought  him 
hither,  him,  whom  I  believed  in  London,  immersed  with  Gerald 
in  political  schemes,  and  for  whom  these  woods  were  not  only 
interdicted  ground,  but  to  whom  they  must  have  also  been  but 
a  tame  field  of  interest,  after  his  audiences  with  ministers  and 
nobles  ?  I  did  not,  however,  pause  to  consider  on  his  appari- 
tion ;  I  rather  quickened  my  pace  towards  the  house,  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  there  ascertaining  the  cause  of  his  visit. 

The  great  gates  of  the  outer  court  were  open  as  usual :  I 
rode  unheedingly  through  them,  and  was  soon  at  the  door  of 
the  hall.  The  porter,  who  unfolded  to  my  summons  the  pon- 
derous door,  uttered,  when  he  saw  me,  an  exclamation  that 
seemed  to  my  ear  to  have  in  it  more  of  sorrow  than  welcome. 

"  How  is  your  master  ?"     I  asked. 

The  man  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  hasten  to  answer:  and 
impressed  with  a  vague  alarm,  I  hurried  on  without  repeating 
the  question.  On  the  staircase  I  met  old  Nicholls,  my  uncle's 
valet  :  I  stopped  and  questioned  him.  My  uncle  had  been 
seized  on  the  preceding  day  with  gout  in  the  stomach  ;  medical 
aid  had  been  procured,  but  it  was  feared  ineffectually,  and  the 
physicians  had  declared,  about  an  hour  before  1  arrived,  that 
he  could  not,  in  human  probability,  outlive  the  night.  Stifling 
the  rising  at  my  heart,  I  waited  to  hear  no  more — I  flew  up  the 
stairs — I  was  at  the  door  of  my  uncle's  chamber — I  stopped 
there,  and  listened  ;  all  was  still — I  opened  the  door  gently — I 
stole  in,  and,  creeping  to  the  bed-side,  knelt  down  and  covered 
my  face  with  my  hands  ;  for  I  required  a  pause  for  self-posses- 
sion, before  I  had  courage  to  look  up.  When  I  raised  my  eyes,  I 
saw  my  mother  on  the  opposite  side  ;  she  sat  on  a  chair  with  a 
draught  of  medicine  in  one  hand,  and  a  watch  in  the  other. 
She  caught  my  eye,  but  did  not  speak  ;  she  gave  me  a  sign  of 
recognition,  and  looked  down  again  upon  the  watch.  My 
uncle's  back  was  turned  to  me,  and  he  lay  so  still  that,  for 
some  moments,  I  thought  he  was  asleep  ;  at  last,  however,  he 
moved  restlessly. 


DEVEREUX.  165 

"  It  is  past  noon  !  "  said  he  to  my  mother,  "  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  three  minutes  and  six  seconds  after  four,"  replied  my 
mother,  looking  closer  at  the  watch. 

My  uncle  sighed.  "  They  have  sent  an  express  for  the  dear 
boy,  madam  !  "  said  he. 

"  Exactly  at  half-past  nine  last  evening,"  answered  my 
mother,  glancing  at  me. 

"  He  could  scarcely  be  here  by  this  time,"  said  my  uncle, 
and  he  moved  again  in  the  bed.  "  Pish — how  the  pillow  frets 
one." 

'*  Is  it  too  high  ?  "  said  my  mother. 

"  No,"  said  my  uncle  faintly,  "  no — no — the  discomfort  is  not 
in  the  pillow,  after  all — 'tis  a  fine  day — is  it  not  ? " 

"  Very  !  "  said  my  mother  ;  '*  I  wish  you  could  go  out." 

My  uncle  did  not  answer  :  there  was  a  pause.  "  Od'sfish, 
madam,  are  those  carriage  wheels  ? " 

"  No,  Sir  William— but— ." 

"There  are  sounds  in  my  ear — my  senses  grow  dim,"  said  my 
uncle,  unheeding  her, — "  would  that  I  might  live  another  day — 
I  should  not  like  to  die  without  seeing  him.  'Sdeath,  madam, 
I  do  hear  something  behind  ! — Sobs,  as  I  live  ! — Who  sobs  for 
the  old  knight?"  and  my  uncle  turned  round,  and  saw  me. 

"  My  dear — dear  uncle  ! "    I  said,  and  could  say  no  more. 

"  Ah,  Morton,"  cried  the  kind  old  man,  putting  his  hand 
affectionately  upon  mine.  "Beshrew  me,  but  I  think  I  have 
conquered  the  grim  enemy  now  that  you  are  come.  But  what's 
this,  my  boy  ? — tears — tears, — why,  little  Sid — no,  nor  Roches- 
ter either,  would  ever  have  believed  this  if  I  had  sworn  it ! 
Cheer  up — cheer  up." 

But,  seeing  that  I  wept  and  sobbed  the  more,  my  uncle, 
after  a  pause,  continued  in  the  somewhat  figurative  strain  which 
the  reader  has  observed  he  sometimes  adopted,  and  which 
perhaps  his  dramatic  studies  had  taught  him. 

"  Nay,  Morton,  what  do  you  grieve  for  ? — that  Age  should 
throw  off  its  fardel  of  aches  and  pains,  and  no  longer  groan 
along  its  weary  road,  meeting  cold  looks  and  unwilling  wel- 
comes, as  both  host  and  comrade  grow  weary  of  the  same  face, 
and  the  spendthrift  heart  has  no  longer  quip  or  smile  where- 
with to  pay  the  reckoning  ?  No — no — let  the  poor  pedler  shufifle 
of  his  dull  pack,  and  fall  asleep.  But  I  am  glad  you  are  come  : 
I  would  sooner  have  one  of  your  kind  looks  at  your  uncle's 
stale  saws  or  jests  than  all  the  long  faces  about  me,  saving  only 
the  presence  of  your  mother  ";  and  with  his  characteristic 
gallantry,  my  uncle  turned  courteously  to  her. 


l66  DEVEREUX. 

"  Dear  Sir  AVilliam  !  "  said  she,  "it  is  time  you  should  take 
your  draught ;  and  then  would  it  not  be  better  that  you  should 
see  the  chaplain — he  waits  without." 

"Od'sfish,"  said  my  uncle,  turning  again  to  me,  "tisthe  way 
with  them  all — when  the  body  is  past  hope,  comes  the  physi- 
cian, and  when  the  soul  is  past  mending,  comes  the  priest. 
No,  madam,  no,  'tis  too  late  for  either. — Thank  ye,  Morton, 
thank  ye,"  (as  I  started  up — took  the  draught  from  my  mother's 
hand,  and  besought  him  to  drink  it)  "  'tis  of  no  use  ;  but  if  it 
pleases  thee,  I  must," — and  he  drank  the  medicine. 

My  mother  rose,  and  walked  towards  the  door — it  was  ajar, 
and,  as  my  eye  followed  her  figure,  I  perceived,  through  the 
opening,  the  black  garb  of  the  chaplain. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  she  quietly ;  "  wait."  And  then  gliding 
away,  she  seated  herself  by  the  window  in  silence,  and  told  her 
beads. 

My  uncle  continued  :  "  They  have  been  at  me,  Morton,  as 
if  I  had  been  a  pagan  ;  and  I  believe,  in  their  hearts,  they  are 
not  a  little  scandalized  that  I  don't  try  to  win  the  next  world, 
by  trembling  like  an  ague.  Faith  now,  I  never  could  believe 
that  Heaven  was  so  partial  to  cowards  ;  nor  can  I  think,  Mor- 
ton, that  Salvation  is  like  a  soldier's  muster-roll,  and  that  we 
may  play  the  devil  between  hours,  so  that,  at  the  last  moment, 
we  whip  in,  and  answer  to  our  names.  Od'sfish,  Morton,  I 
could  tell  thee  a  tale  of  that ;  but  'tis  a  long  one,  and  we  have 
not  time  now.  Well,  well,  for  my  part,  I  believe  reverently  and 
gratefully  of  God,  and  do  not  think  He  will  be  very  wroth 
with  our  past  enjoyment  of  life,  if  we  have  taken  care  that 
others  should  enjoy  it  too  ;  nor  do  I  think,  with  thy  good 
mother,  and  Aubrey,  dear  child  !  that  an  idle  word  has  the 
same  weight  in  the  Almighty's  scales  as  a  wicked  deed." 

"  Blessed,  blessed  are  they,"  I  cried,  through  my  tears, 
"  on  whose  souls  there  is  as  little  stain  as  there  is  on 
yours  ! " 

"  Faith,  Morton,  that's  kindly  said  ;  and  thou  knowest  not 
how  strangely  it  sounds,  after  their  exhortations  to  repentance. 
I  know  I  have  had  my  faults,  and  walked  on  to  our  common 
goal  in  a  very  irregular  line  :  but  I  never  wronged  the  living 
nor  slandered  the  dead,  nor  ever  shut  my  heart  to  the  poor — 
'twere  a  burning  sin  if  I  had ;  and  I  have  loved  all  men 
and  all  things,  and  I  never  bore  ill-will  to  a  creature.  Poor 
Ponto,  Morton,  thou  wilt  take  care  of  poor  Ponto,  when  I'm 
dead — nay,  nay,  don't  grieve  so.  Go,  my  child,  go — compose 
thyself  while  I  see  the  priest,  for  'twill  please  thy  poor  mother  ; 


DEVEREUX,  167 

and  though  she  thinks  harshly  of  me  now,  I  should  not  like 
her  to  do  so  to-fnorrow !     Go,  my  dear  boy  go." 

I  went  from  the  room,  and  waited  by  the  door,  till  the  office 
of  the  priest  was  over.  My  mother  then  came  out,  and  said 
Sir  William  had  composed  himself  to  sleep.  While  she  was 
yet  speaking,  Gerald  surprised  me  by  his  appearance.  I 
learned  that  he  had  been  in  the  house  for  the  last  three  days, 
and  when  I  heard  this,  I  involuntarily  accounted  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  Montreuil.  I  saluted  him  distantly,  and  he  returned 
my  greeting  with  the  like  pride.  He  seemed,  however,  though 
in  a  less  degree,  to  share  in  my  emotions ;  and  my  heart 
softened  to  him  for  it.  Nevertheless  we  stood  apart,  and  met 
not  as  brothers  should  have  met  by  the  death-bed  of  a  mutual 
benefactor. 

"  Will  you  wait  without  ? "  said  my  mother. 

"  No,"  answered  I,  "  I  will  watch  over  him."  So  I  stole  in, 
with  a  light  step,  and  seated  myself  by  my  uncle's  bed-side. 
He  was  asleep,  and  his  sleep  was  as  hushed  and  quiet  as  an 
infant's.  I  looked  upon  his  face,  and  saw  a  change  had  come 
over  it,  and  was  increasing  sensibly  :  but  there  was  neither 
harshness  nor  darkness  in  the  change,  awful  as  it  was.  The 
soul,  so  long  nurtured  on  benevolence,  could  not,  in  parting, 
leave  a  rude  stamp  on  the  kindly  clay  which  had  seconded  its 
impulses  so  well. 

The  evening  had  just  set  in,  when  my  uncle  woke  ;  he  turned 
very  gently,  and  smiled  when  he  saw  me. 

"It  is  late,"  said  he,  and  I  observed  with  a  wrung  heart,  that 
his  voice  was  fainter. 

"  No,  sir,  not  very,"  said  I. 

"  Late  enough,  my  child ;  the  warm  sun  has  gone  down  ; 
and  'tis  a  good  time  to  close  one's  eyes,  when  all  without  looks 
gray  and  chill  :  methinks  it  is  easier  to  wish  thee  farewell, 
Morton,  when  I  see  thy  face  indistinctly.  I  am  glad  I  shall 
not  die  in  the  day-time.  Give  me  thy  hand,  my  child,  and  tell 
me  that  thou  art  not  angry  with  thine  old  uncle  for  thwarting 
thee  in  that  love  business.  I  have  heard  tales  of  the  girl,  too, 
which  make  me  glad,  for  thy  sake,  that  it  is  all  off,  though  I 
might  not  tell  thee  of  them  before.  'Tis  very  dark,  Morton. 
I  have  had  a  pleasant  sleep. — Od'sfish,  I  do  not  think  a  bad 
man  would  have  slept  so  well. — The  fire  burns  dim,  Morton — 
it  is  very  cold.  Cover  me  up — double  the  counterpane  over 
the  legs,  Morton.  I  remember  once  walking  in  the  Mall — 
little  Sid  said  '  Devereux.'  It  is  colder  and  colder,  Morton — 
raise  the  blankets  more  over  the  back.     '  Devereux,'  said  little 


168  devereUX. 

Sid — faith,  Morton,  'tis  ice  now — where  art  thou  ? — is  the  fire 
out,  that  I  can't  see  thee  ?     Remember  thine  old  uncle,  Mor- 
ton— and — and — don't    forget  poor — Ponto. — Bless  thee,  my 
child — bless  you  all !  " 
And  my  uncle  died  ! 


CHAPTER  HI. 

A  great  Change  of  Prospects. 

I  SHUT  myself  up  in  the  apartments  prepared  for  me  (they 
were  not  those  I  had  formerly  occupied),  and  refused  all  par- 
ticipation in  my  solitude,  till,  after  an  interval  of  some  days, 
my  mother  came  to  summon  me  to  the  opening  of  the  will. 
She  was  more  moved  than  I  had  expected.  **  It  is  a  pity," 
said  she,  as  we  descended  the  stairs,  "  that  Aubrey  is  not  here, 
and  that  we  should  be  so  unacquainted  with  the  exact  place 
where  he  is  likely  to  be  that  I  fear  the  letter  I  sent  him  may 
be  long  delayed,  or,  indeed,  altogether  miscarry." 

"  Is  not  the  Abbe  here  ? "  said  I,  listlessly. 

"  No  !  "  answered  my  mother,  "  to  be  sure  not." 

"  He  has  l^een  here,"  said  I,  greatly  surprised.  "  I  certainly 
saw  him  on  the  day  of  my  arrival." 

"  Impossible  ! "  said  my  mother,  in  evident  astonishment  ; 
and  seeing  that,  at  all  events,  she  was  unacquainted  with  the 
circumstance,  I  said  no  more. 

The  will  was  to  be  read  in  the  little  room,  where  my  uncle 
had  been  accustomed  to  sit.  I  felt  it  as  a  sacrilege  to  his 
memory  to  choose  that  spot  for  such  an  office,  but  I  said  nothing. 
Gerald  and  my  mother,  the  lawyer  (a  neighboring  attorney, 
named  Oswald),  and  myself,  were  the  only  persons  present ; 
Mr.  Oswald  hemmed  thrice,  and  broke  the  seal.  After  a  pre- 
liminary, strongly  characteristic  of  the  testator,  he  came  to  the 
disposition  of  the  estates.  I  had  never  once,  since  my  poor 
uncle's  death,  thought  upon  the  chances  of  his  will — indeed, 
knowing  myself  so  entirely  his  favorite,  I  could  not,  if  I  had 
thought  upon  them,  have  entertained  a  doubt  as  to  their  result. 
What  then  was  my  astonishment,  when,  couched  in  terms  of 
the  strongest  affection,  the  whole  bulk  of  the  property  was 
bequeathed  to  Gerald  ;  to  Aubrey  the  sum  of  forty,  to  myself 
that  of  twenty,  thousand  pounds  (a  capital  considerably  less 
than  the  yearly  income  of  my  uncle's  princely  estates),  was 
allotted.  Then  followed  a  list  of  minor  bequests, — to  my 
mother  an  annuity  of  three  thousand  a  year,  with  the  privilege 


DEVfeREtrX.  169 

of  apartments  in  the  house  during  her  life ;  to  each  of  the  ser- 
vants legacies  sufficient  for  independence  ;  to  a  few  friends, 
and  distant  connections  of  the  family,  tokens  of  the  testator's 
remembrance, — even  the  horses  to  his  carriage,  and  the  dogs 
that  fed  from  his  menials'  table,  were  not  forgotten,  but  were 
to  be  set  apart  from  work,  and  maintained  in  indolence  during 
their  remaining  span  of  life.  The  will  was  concluded — I  could 
not  believe  my  senses  :  not  a  word  was  said  as  a  reason  for 
giving  Gerald  the  priority. 

I  rose  calmly  enough.  "Suffer  me,  sir,"  said  I  to  the  law- 
yer, "  to  satisfy  my  own  eyes."  Mr.  Oswald  bowed,  and  placed 
the  will  in  my  hands.  I  glanced  at  Gerald  as  I  took  it :  his 
countenance  betrayed,  or  feigned,  an  astonishment  equal  to 
iny  own.  With  a  jealous,  searching,  scrutinizing  eye,  I  ex- 
amined the  words  of  the  bequest.  I  examined  especially  (for 
I  suspected  that  the  names  must  have  been  exchanged)  the 
place  in  which  my  name  and  Gerald's  occurred.  In  vain  :  all 
was  smooth  and  fair  to  the  eye,  not  a  vestige  of  possible  erasure 
or  alteration  was  visible.  I  looked  next  at  the  wording  of  the 
will:  it  was  evidently  my  uncle's — no  one  could  have  feigned 
or  imitated  the  peculiar  turn  of  his  expressions  ;  and,  above 
all,  many  parts  of  the  will :  (the  affectionate  and  personal  parts) 
were  in  his  own  handwriting. 

"  The  date,"  said  I  "  is,  I  perceive,  of  very  recent  period  ; 
the  will  is  signed  by  two  witnesses  besides  yourself.  Who  and 
where  are  they  ?  " 

"  Robert  Lister,  the  first  signature,  my  clerk, — he  is  since 
dead,  sir." 

"  Dead  !  "  said  I  ;  "and  the  other  witness,  George  Davis?" 

"  Is  one  of  Sir  William's  tenants,  and  is  below,  sir,  in  waiting." 

"  Let  him  come  up,"  and  a  middle-sized,  stout  man,  with  a 
blunt,  bold,  open  countenance,  was  admitted. 

"  Did  you  witness  this  will  ? "  said  I. 

"  I  did,  your  honor  ! " 

"  And  this  is  your  handwriting?"  pointing  to  the  scarcely 
legible  scrawl. 

"  Yees,  your  honor,"  said  the  man,  scratching  his  head.  "I 
think  it  be,  they  are  my  ees,  and  G,  and  Z>,  sure  enough." 

"  And  do  you  know  the  purport  of  the  will  you  signed  ? " 

"  Anan  !  " 

"  I  mean,  do  you  know  to  whom  Sir  William — stop,  Mr.  Os- 
wald— suffer  the  man  to  answer  me — to  whom  Sir  William  left 
his  property?" 

"  Noa,  to  be  sure,  sir  ;  the  will  was  a  woundy  long  one,  and 


170  DEVEREUX. 

Maister  Oswald  there  told  me  it  was  no  use  to  read  it  over  to 
me,  but  merely  to  sign,  as  a  witness  to  Sir  William's  hand- 
writing." 

"Enough  ;  you  may  retire";  and  George  Davis  vanished. 

"  Mr.  Oswald,"  said  I,  approaching  the  attorney,  "  I  may 
wrong  you,  Jind  if  so,  I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  I  suspect  there  has 
Ijeen  foul  practice  in  this  deed.  I  have  reason  to  be  convinced 
tliat  Sir  William  Devereux  could  never  have  made  this  devise. 
1  give  you  warning,  sir,  that  I  shall  bring  the  business  immedi- 
ately before  a  court  of  law,  and  that  if  guilty — ay,  tremble, 
sir — of  what  I  suspect  you  will  answer  for  this  deed  at  the  foot 
of  the  gallows." 

I  turned  to  Gerald,  who  rose  while  I  was  yet  speaking. 
Before  I  could  address  him,  he  exclaimed  with  evident  and  ex- 
treme agitation: 

*'  You  cannot,  Morton — you  cannot — you  dare  not  insinuate 
that  I,  your  brother,  have  been  base  enough  to  forge,  or  to  in- 
stigate the  forgery  of,  this  will  ? " 

Gerald's  agitation  made  me  still  less  doubtful  of  his  guilt. 

"  The  case,  sir,"  I  answered  coldly,  "  stands  thus  :  my  uncle 
could  not  have  made  this  will — it  is  a  devise  that  must  seem 
incredible  to  all  who  knew  aught  of  our  domestic  circumstances. 
Fraud  has  been  practiced,  how  I  know  not !  by  whom  I  do 
know." 

"  Morton,  Morton — this  is  insufferable — I  cannot  bear  such 
charges,  even  from  a  brother." 

"  Charges  ! — your  conscience  speaks,  sir — not  I  ;  no  one 
benefits  by  this  fraud  but  you  :  pardon  me  if  I  draw  an  infer- 
ence from  a  fact." 

So  saying,  I  turned  on  my  heel,  and  abruptly  left  the  apart- 
ment. I  ascended  the  stairs  which  led  to  my  own  :  there  I 
found  my  servant  preparing  the  paraphernalia  in  which  that 
very  evening  I  was  to  attend  my  uncle's  funeral.  I  gave  him, 
with  a  calm  and  collected  voice,  the  necessary  instructions  for 
following  me  to  town  immediately  after  that  event,  and  then  I 
passed  on  to  the  room  where  the  deceased  lay  in  state.  The 
room  was  hung  with  black — the  gorgeous  pall,  wrought  with 
the  proud  heraldry  of  our  line,  lay  over  the  coffin,  and  by  the 
lights  which  made,  in  that  old  chamber,  a  more  brilliant,  yet 
more  ghastly  day,  sat  the  hired  watchers  of  the  dead. 

I  bade  them  leave  me,  and  kneeling  down  beside  the  coffin» 
I  poured  out  the  last  expressions  of  my  grief.  I  rose,  and  was 
retiring  once  more  to  my  room,  when  I  encountered  Gerald. 

"  Morton,"   said  he,  "  I  own  to  you,  I  myself  am  astounded 


DEVEREUX.  171 

by  my  uncle's  will.  I  do  not  come  to  make  you  offers — you 
would  not  accept  them — I  do  not  come  to  vindicate  myself,  it  is 
beneath  me;  and  we  have  never  been  as  brothers,  and  we  know 
not  their  language — but  I  do  come  to  demand  you  to  retract  the 
dark  and  causeless  suspicions  you  have  vented  against  me,  and 
also  to  assure  you  that,  if  you  have  doubts  of  the  authenticity 
of  the  will,  so  far  from  throwing  obstacles  in  your  way,  I  myself 
Avill  join  in  the  inquiries  you  institute,  and  the  expenses  of  the 
law." 

I  felt  some  difficulty  in  curbing  my  indignation  while  Gerald 
thus  spoke.  I  saw  before  me  the  persecutor  of  Isora — the  fraud- 
ulent robber  of  my  rights,  and  I  heard  this  enemy  speak  to  me 
of  aiding  in  the  inquiries  which  were  to  convict  himself  of  the 
basest,  if  not  the  blackest,  of  human  crimes  ;  there  was  some- 
thing too  in  the  reserved  and  yet  insolent  tone  of  his  voice  which, 
reminding  me  as  it  did  of  our  long  aversion  to  each  other,  made 
my  very  blood  creep  with  abhorrence.  I  turned  away,  that  I 
might  not  break  my  oath  to  Isora,  for  I  felt  strongly  tempted 
to  do  so  ;  and  said  in  as  calm  an  accent  as  I  could  command, 
"  The  case  will,  I  trust,  require  no  king's  evidence;  and  at  least, 
I  will  not  be  beholden  to  the  man  whom  my  reason  condemns 
for  any  assistance  in  bringing  upon  himself  the  ultimate  con- 
demnation of  the  law.'" 

Gerald  looked  at  me  sternly  :  "  Were  you  not  my  brother," 
said  he  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  would,  for  a  charge  so  dishonoring  my 
fair  name,  strike  you  dead  at  my  feet." 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  exertion  of  fraternal  love,"  I  rejoined,  with 
a  scornful  laugh,  but  an  eye  flashing  with  passions  a  thousand 
times  more  fierce  than  scorn,  "  that  prevents  your  adding  that 
last  favor  to  those  you  have  already  bestowed  on  me." 

Gerald,  with  a  muttered  curse,  placed  his  hand  upon  his  sword; 
my  own  rapier  was  instantly  half  drawn,  when  to  save  us  from 
the  great  guilt  of  mortal  contest  against  each  other,  steps  were 
heard,  and  a  number  of  the  domestics  charged  with  melancholy 
duties  at  the  approaching  rite  were  seen  slowly  sweeping  in 
black  robes  along  the  opposite  gallery.  Perhaps  that  interrup- 
tion restored  both  of  us  to  our  senses,  for  we  said,  almost  in  the 
same  breath,  and  nearly  in  the  same  phrase,  "  This  way  of  ter- 
minating strife  is  not  for  us"  ;  and,  as  Gerald  spoke,  he  turned 
slowly  away,  descended  the  staircase,  and  disappeared. 

The  funeral  took  place  at  night  :  a  numerous  procession  of 
the  tenants  and  peasantry  attended.  My  poor  uncle!  there  was 
not  a  dry  eye  for  thee  but  those  of  thine  own  kindred.  Tall, 
Stately,  erect  in  the  power  and  majesty  of  his  unrivalled  form, 


172  DEVEREUX. 

Stood  Gerald,  already  assuming  the  dignity  and  lordship  which, 
to  speak  frankly,  so  well  became  him  ;  my  mother's  face  was 
turned  from  me,  but  her  attitude  proclaimed  her  utterly  absorbed 
in  prayer.  As  for  myself,  my  heart  seemed  hardened:  I  could 
not  betray  to  the  gaze  of  a  hundred  strangers  the  emotion  which 
I  would  have  hidden  from  those  whom  I  loved  the  most;  wrapped 
in  my  cloak,  with  arms  folded  on  my  breast,  and  eyes  bent  to 
the  ground,'  I  leaned  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  chapel, 
apart,  and  apparently  unmoved. 

But  when  they  were  about  to  lower  the  body  into  the  vault, 
a  momentary  weakness  came  over  me.  I  made  an  involuntary 
step  forward,  a  single  but  deep  groan  of  anguish  broke  from  me, 
and  then,  covering  my  face  with  my  mantle,  I  resumed  my  for- 
mer attitude,  and  all  was  still.  The  rite  was  over;  in  many  and 
broken  groups  the  spectators  passed  from  the  chapel  :  some  to 
speculate  on  the  future  lord,  some  to  mourn  over  the  late,  and 
all  to  return  the  next  morning  to  their  wonted  business,  and  let 
the  glad  sun  teach  them  to  forget  the  past,  until  for  themselves 
the  sun  should  be  no  more,  and  the  forgetfulness  eternal. 

The  hour  was  so  late  that  I  relinquished  my  intention  of  leav- 
ing the  house  that  night;  I  ordered  my  horse  to  be  in  readiness 
at  daybreak,  and,  before  I  retired  to  rest,  I  went  to  my  mother's 
apartments  :  she  received  me  with  more  feeling  than  she  had 
ever  testified  before. 

"Believe  me,  Morton,"  said  she,  and  she  kissed  my  forehead; 
"believe  me,  I  can  fully  enter  into  the  feelings  which  you  must 
naturally  experience  on  an  event  so  contrary  to  your  expecta- 
tions. I  cannot  conceal  from  you  how  much  I  am  surprised. 
Certainly  Sir  William  never  gave  any  of  us  cause  to  suppose 
that  he  liked  either  of  your  brothers — Gerald  less  than  Aubre) — 
so  much  as  yourself ;  nor  poor  man,  was  he  in  other  things  at 
all  addicted  to  conceal  his  opinions." 

"It  is  true,  my  mother,"  said  I  ;  "it  is  true.  Have  you  not 
therefore  some  suspicions  of  the  authenticity  of  the  will  ? " 

"  Suspicions  !  "  cried  my  mother.  "  No  ! — impossible! — sus- 
picions of  whom .''  You  could  not  think  Gerald  so  base,  and 
who  else  had  an  interest  in  deception  ? — Besides,  the  signature 
is  undoubtedly  Sir  William's  handwriting,  and  the  will  was  regu- 
larly witnessed  ;  suspicions,  Morton — no,  impossible  !  Reflect 
too,  how  eccentric  and  humorsome  your  uncle  always  was:  sus- 
picions ! — no,  impossible  !  " 

"  Such  things  have  been,  my  mother,  nor  are  they  uncommon: 
men  will  hazard  their  souls,  ay,  and  what  to  some  is  more 
precious  still,  their  lives  too — for  the  vile  clay  we  call  money. 


DEVEREUX.  173 

But  enough  of  this  now:  the  Law — that  great  arbiter — that  eater 
of  the  oyster,  and  divider  of  its  sliells— the  Law  will  decide  be- 
tween us,  and  if  against  me,  as  I  suppose,  and  fear  the  decision 
will  be — why  I  must  be  a  suitor  to  Fortune,  instead  of  her  com- 
mander. Give  me  your  blessing,  my  dearest  mother  ;  I  cannot 
stay  longer  in  this  house:  to-morrow  I  leave  you." 

And  my  mother  did  bless  me,  and  I  fell  upon  her  neck  and 
clung  to  it.  "Ah  !  "  thought  I,  "  this  blessing  is  almost  worth 
my  uncle's  fortune." 

I  returned  to  my  room — there  I  saw  on  the  table  the  case 
of  the  sword  sent  me  by  the  French  king.  I  had  left  it  with  my 
uncle,  on  my  departure  to  town,  and  it  had  been  found  among 
his  effects  and  reclaimed  by  me.  I  took  out  the  sword,  and 
drew  it  from  the  scabbard. 

"Come,"  said  I,  and  I  kindled  with  a  melancholy,  yet  a  deep, 
enthusiasm,  as  1  looked  along  the  blade,  "come,  my  bright 
friend,  with  thee  through  this  labyrinth  which  we  call  the  world, 
will  I  carve  my  way  !  Fairest  and  speediest  of  earth's  levellers, 
thou  raakest  the  path  from  the  low  valley  to  the  steep  hill,  and 
shapest  the  soldier's  axe  into  the  monarch's  sceptre  !  The  laurel 
and  the  fasces,  the  curule  car,  and  the  emperor's  purple — what 
are  these  but  thy  playthings,  alternately  thy  scorn  and  thy  re- 
ward? Founder  of  all  empires,  propagator  of  all  creeds,  thou 
leddest  the  Gaul  and  the  Goth,  and  the  Gods  of  Rome  and 
Greece  crumbled  upon  their  altars  !  Beneath  thee,  the  fires  of 
the  Gheber  waxed  pale,  and  on  thy  point  the  badge  of  the  camel- 
driver  blazed  like  a  sun  over  the  startled  East !  Eternal  arbiter, 
and  unconquerable  despot,  while  the  passions  of  mankind  exist ! 
Most  solemn  of  hypocrites — circling  blood  with  glory  as  with  a 
halo,  and  consecrating  homicide  and  massacre  with  a  hollow 
name,  which  the  parched  throat  of  thy  votary,  in  the  battle  and 
the  agony,  shouteth  out  with  its  last  breath  !  Star  of  all  human 
destinies  !  I  kneel  before  thee,  and  invoke  from  thy  bright 
astrology  an  omen  and  a  smile." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

An  Episode. — The  Son  of  the  Greatest  Man  who  (one  only  excepted)  ever 
rose  to  a  Throne,  but  by  no  means  of  the  Greatest  Man  (save  one)  who 
ever  existed. 

Before  sunrise  the  next  morning,  I  had  commenced  my  re- 
turn to  London.  I  had  previously  entrusted  to  X\\t  locum  tenem 
Qf  the  sage  D^sn^arais  the  royal  gift,  and  (singular  conjunc- 


174  DEVEREUX. 

tion  !)  poor  Ponto,  my  uncle's  dog.  Here  let  me  pause,  as  I 
shall  have  no  other  opportunity  to  mention  him,  to  record  the 
fate  of  the  canine  bequest.  He  accompanied  me  some  years 
afterwards  to  France,  and  he  died  there  in  extreme  age.  I  shed 
tears,  as  I  saw  the  last  relic  of  my  poor  uncle  expire,  and  I 
was  not  consoled  even  though  he  was  buried  in  the  garden  of 
the  gallant  Villars,  and  immortalized  by  an  epitaph  from  the 
pen  of  the  courtly  Chaulieu. 

Leaving  my  horse  to  select  his  own  pace,  I  surrendered  my- 
self to  reflection  upon  the  strange  alteration  that  had  taken 
place  in  my  fortunes.  There  did  not,  in  my  own  mind,  rest  a 
doubt  that  some  villainy  had  been  practiced  with  respect  to  the 
will.  My  uncle's  constant  and  unvarying  favor  towards  me  ; 
the  unequivocal  expressions  he  himself  from  time  to  time  had 
dropped  indicative  of  his  future  intentions  on  my  behalf ;  the 
easy  and  natural  manner  in  which  he  had  seemed  to  consider, 
as  a  thing  of  course,  my  heritage  and  succession  of  his  estates  ; 
all,  coupled  with  his  own  frank  and  kindly  character,  so  little 
disposed  to  raise  hopes  which  he  meant  to  disappoint,  might 
alone  have  been  sufficient  to  arouse  my  suspicions  at  a  devise 
so  contrary  to  all  past  experience  of  the  testator.  But  when  to 
these  were  linked  the  bold  temper  and  the  daring  intellect  of 
my  brother,  joined  to  his  personal  hatred  to  myself:  his  close 
intimacy  with  Montreuil,  whom  I  believed  capable  of  the  dark- 
est designs  ;  the  sudden  and  evidently  concealed  appearance 
of  the  latter  on  the  day  my  uncle  died  ;  the  agitation  and  pale- 
ness of  the  attorney  ;  the  enormous  advantages  accruing  to 
Gerald,  and  to  no  one  else,  from  the  terms  of  the  devise  :  when 
these  were  all  united  into  one  focus  of  evidence,  they  appeared 
to  me  to  leave  no  doubt  of  the  forgery  of  tlie  testament,  and 
the  crime  of  Gerald.  Nor  was  there  anything  in  my  brother's 
bearing  and  manner  calculated  to  abate  my  suspicions.  His 
agitation  was  real ;  his  surprise  might  have  been  feigned  ;  his 
offer  of  assistance  in  investigation  was  an  unmeaning  bravado  ; 
his  conduct  to  myself  testified  his  continued  ill-will  towards 
me — an  ill-will  which  might  possibly  have  instigated  him  in  the 
fraud,  scarcely  less  than  the  whispers  of  interest  and  cupidity. 

But  while  this  was  the  natural  and  indelible  impression  on 
my  mind,  I  could  not  disguise  from  myself  the  extreme  diffi- 
culty I  should  experience  in  resisting  my  brother's  claim.  So 
far  as  my  utter  want  of  all  legal  knowledge  would  allow  me  to  de- 
cide, I  could  perceive  nothing  in  the  will  itself  wliich  would 
admit  of  a  lawyer  's  successful  cavil  :  my  reasons  for  suspicion, 
50  conclusive  to  myself,  would  seem  nugatory  to  a  judge.    Myun- 


DEVEREUX  175 

clewas  known  as  a  humorist ;  and  prove  that  a  man  differs  from 
others  in  one  thing,  and  the  world  will  believe  that  he  differs  from 
them  in  a  thousand.  His  favor  to  me  would  be,  in  the  popular 
eye,  only  an  eccentricity,  and  the  unlooked-for  disposition  of  his 
will  only  a  caprice.  Possession,  too,  gave  Gerald  a  proverbial 
vantage-ground,  which  my  whole  life  might  be  wasted  in  con- 
testing ;  while  his  command  of  an  immense  wealth  might,  more 
than  probably,  exhaust  my  spirit  by  delay,  and  my  fortune  by 
expenses.  Precious  prerogative  of  law,  to  reverse  the  attribute 
of  the  Almighty  !  to  fill  the  rich  with  good  things,  but  to  send 
the  poor  empty  away  !  In  corruptissimd  repuhlicd plurivKZ  leges. 
Legislation  perplexed  is  synonymous  with  crime  unpunished. 
A  reflection,  by  the  way,  I  should  never  have  made,  if  I  had 
never  had  a  law-suit — sufferers  are  ever  reformers. 

Revolving,  then,  these  anxious  and  unpleasing  thoughts,  in- 
terrupted, at  times,  by  regrets  of  a  purer  and  less  selfish  na- 
ture for  a  friend  I  had  lost,  and  wandering,  at  others,  to  the 
brighter  anticipations  of  rejoining  Isora,  and  drinking  from 
her  eyes  my  comfort  for  the  past,  and  my  hope  for  the  future, 
I  continued  and  concluded  my  day's  travel. 

The  nextday,  on  resuming  my  journey,  and  on  feeling  the  time 
approach  that  would  bring  me  to  Isora,something  like  joy  became 
the  most  prevalent  feeling  on  my  mind.  So  true  is  it  that  mis- 
fortunes little  affect  us  so  long  as  we  have  some  ulterior  object, 
which,  by  arousing  hope,  steals  us  from  affliction.  Alas  !  the 
pang  of  a  moment  becomes  intolerable  when  we  know  of  noth- 
ing beyoiid\h^  moment,which  it  soothes  us  to  anticipate  !  Hap- 
piness lives  in  the  light  of  the  future  :  attack  the  present — she 
defies  you  !     Darken  the  future,  and  you  destroy  her ! 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  :  through  the  vapors  which  rolled 
slowly  away  beneath  his  beams,  the  sun  broke  gloriously  forth  ; 
and  over  wood  and  hill,  and  the  low  plains  which,  covered 
with  golden  corn,  stretched  immediately  before  me,  his  smile 
lay  in  stillness,  but  in  joy.  And  ever  from  out  the  brake  and 
the  scattered  copse,  which  at  frequent  intervals  beset  the  road, 
the  merry  birds  sent  a  fitful  and  glad  music  to  mingle  with 
the  sweets  and  freshness  of  the  air. 

I  had  accomplished  the  greater  part  of  my  journey,  and  had 
entered  into  a  more  wooded  and  garden-like  description  of 
country,  when  I  perceived  an  old  man,  in  a  kind  of  low  chaise, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  hold  in  a  little,  but  spirited  horse,  which 
had  taken  alarm  at  some  object  on  the  road,  and  was  running 
away  with  its  driver.  The  age  of  the  gentleman,  and  the  light- 
uess  of  the  chaise,  gave  me  some  alarm  for  the  safety  of  the 


176  DEVEREUX. 

driver  ;  so,  tying  my  horse  to  a  gate,  lest  the  sound  of  his  hoofs 
might  only  increase  the  speed  and  fear  of  the  fugitive,  I  ran 
with  a  swift  and  noiseless  step  along  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge,  and  coming  out  into  the  road,  just  before  the  pony's 
head,  I  succeeded  in  arresting  him,  at  rather  a  critical  spot 
and  moment.  The  old  gentleman  very  soon  recovered  his 
alarm  ;  and,  returning  me  many  thanks  for  my  interference,  re- 
quested me  to  accompany  him  to  his  house,  which  he  said  was 
two  or  three  miles  distant. 

Though  I  had  no  desire  to  be  delayed  in  my  journey,  for  the 
mere  sake  of  seeing  an  old  gentleman's  house,  I  thought  my 
new  acquaintance's  safety  required  me,  at  least,  to  offer  to  act 
as  his  charioteer  till  we  reached  his  house.  To  my  secret  vex- 
ation at  that  time,  though  I  afterwards  thought  the  petty  incon- 
venience was  amply  repaid  by  a  conference  with  a  very  singular 
and  once  noted  character,  the  offer  was  accepted.  Surrender- 
ing my  own  steed  to  the  care  of  a  ragged  boy,  who  promised  to 
lead  it  with  equal  judgment  and  zeal,  I  entered  the  little  car, 
and,  keeping  a  firm  hand  and  constant  eye  on  the  reins,  brought 
the  offending  quadruped  into  a  very  equable  and  sedate 
pace. 

"Poor  Pob,"said  the  old  gentleman,  apostrophizing  his  horse; 
"poor  Pob,  like  thy  betters,  thou  knowest  the  weak  hand 
from  the  strong ;  and  when  thou  art  not  held  in  by  power,  thou 
wilt  chafe  against  love  ;  so  that  thou  renewest  in  my  mind  the 
remembrance  of  its  favorite  maxim,  viz.,  'The only  preventative 
to  rebellion  is  restraint  ! '  " 

"  Your  observation,  sir,"  said  I,  rather  struck  by  this  address, 
"  makes  very  little  in  favor  of  the  more  generous  feelings  by 
which  we  ought  to  be  actuated.  It  is  a  base  mind  which 
always  requires  the  bit  and  bridle." 

"It  is,  sir,"  answered  the  old  gentleman  ;  "I  allow  it ;  but, 
though  I  have  some  love  for  human  nature,  I  have  no  respect 
for  it  ;  and  while  I  pity  its  infirmities,  I  cannot  but  confess 
them." 

"  Methinks,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  that  you  have  uttered  in  that 
short  speech  more  sound  philosophy  than  I  have  heard  for 
months.  There  is  wisdom  in  not  thinking  too  loftily  of  human 
clay,  and  benevolence  in  not  judging  it  too  harshly,  and  some- 
thing, too,  of  magnanimity  in  this  moderation  ;  for  we  seldom 
contemn  mankind  till  they  have  hurt  us,  and  when  they  have 
hurt  us,  we  seldom  do  anything  but  detest  them  for  the  injury." 

"  You  speak  shrewdly,  sir,  for  one  so  young,"  returned  the 
old  man,  looking  hard  at  me  ;  "  and  I  will  be  sworn  you  have 


liEVEREUX.  177 

suffered  some  cares  ;  for  we  never  begin  to  think,  till  we  are  a 
little  afraid  to  hope." 

I  sighed  as  I  answered,  "There  are  some  men,  I  fancy,  to 
whom  constitution  supplies  the  office  of  care  ;  who,  naturally 
melancholy,  become  easily  addicted  to  reflection,  and  reflection 
is  a  soil  which  soon  repays  us  for  whatever  trouble  we  bestow 
upon  its  culture." 

"  True,  sir  !  "  said  my  companion — and  there  was  a  pause. 
The  old  gentlemen  resumed  :  "  We  are  not  far  from  my  home 
now  (or  rather  my  temporary  residence,  for  my  proper  and 
general  home  is  at  Cheshunt,  in  Hertfordshire);  and,  as  the  day 
is  scarcely  half  spent,  I  trust  you  will  not  object  to  partake  of  a 
hermit's  fare.  Nay,  nay,  no  excuse  :  I  assure  you  that  I  am 
not  a  gossip  in  general,  or  a  liberal  dispenser  of  invitations ; 
and  I  think,  if  you  refuse  me  now,  you  will  hereafter  regret  it." 

My  curiosity  was  rather  excited  by  this,  threat ;  and,  reflect- 
ing that  my  horse  required  a  short  rest,  I  subdued  my  impa- 
tience to  return  to  town,  and  accepted  the  invitation.  We  came 
presently  to  a  house  of  moderate  size,  and  rather  antique  fash- 
ion. This,  the  old  man  informed  me,  was  his  present  abode. 
A  servant,  almost  as  old  as  his  master,  came  to  the  door,  and, 
giving  his  arm  to  my  host,  led  him,  for  he  was  rather  lame 
and  otherwise  infirm,  across  a  small  hall  into  a  long,  low  apart- 
ment.    I  followed. 

A  miniature  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  placed  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  forcibly  arrested  my  attention. 

"  It  is  the  only  portrait  of  the  Protector,  I  ever  saw,"  said  T, 
"which  impresses  on  me  the  certainty  of  a  likeness  ;  that  reso- 
lute, gloomy  brow — that  stubborn  lip — that  heavy,  yet  not 
stolid,  expression — all  seem  to  warrant  resemblance  to  that  sin- 
gular and  fortunate  man,  to  whom  folly  appears  to  have  been 
as  great  an  instrument  of  success  as  wisdom,  and  who  rose  to 
the  supreme  power,  perhaps,  no  less  from  a  pitiable  fanaticism 
than  an  admirable  genius.  So  true  is  it  that  great  men  often  soar 
to  their  height,  by  qualities  the  least  obvious  to  the  spectator, 
and  (to  stoop  to  a  low  comparison,)  resemble  that  animal*  in 
which  a  common  ligament  supplies  the  place,  and  possesses  the 
property,  of  wings." 

The  old  man  smiled  very  slightly,  as  I  made  this  remark. 
"If  this  be  true,"  said  he,  with  an  impressive  tone,  "  though  we 
may  wonder  less  at  the  talents  of  the  Protector,  we  must  be 
more  indulgent  to  his  character,  nor  condemn  him  for  insincer' 
ity,  when  at  heart  he  himself  was  deceived." 

*  The  flying  squirrel 


1 78  i)EVEREU)t. 

"  It  is  in  that  light,"  said  I,  "  that  I  have  always  viewed  his 
conduct.  And  though  myself,  by  prejudice,  a  cavalier  and  a 
tory,  I  own  that  Cromwell  (hypocrite  as  he  is  esteemed)  appears 
to  me  as  much  to  have  exceeded  his  royal  antagonist  and  vic- 
tim in  the  virtue  of  sincerity,  as  he  did  in  the  grandeur  of  his 
genius  and  the  profound  consistency  of  his  ambition." 

"Sir,"  said  my  host,  with  a  warmth  that  astonished  me, 
"you  seem  to  have  known  that  man,  so  justly  do  you  judge 
him.  Yes,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "yes,  perhaps  no  one  ever 
so  varnished  to  his  own  breast  his  designs — no  one,  so  covetous 
of  glory,  was  ever  so  duped  by  conscience — no  one  ever  rose  to 
such  a  height,  through  so  few  acts  that  seemed  to  himself 
worthy  of  remorse." 

At  this  part  of  our  conversation,  the  servant,  entering, 
announced  dinner.  We  adjourned  to  another  room,  and  par- 
took of  a  homely  yet  not  uninviting  repast.  When  men  are 
pleased  with  each  other,  conversation  soon  gets  beyond  the 
ordinary  surfaces  to  talk  ;  and  an  exchange  of  deeper  opin- 
ions is  speedily  effected  by  what  old  Barnes*  quaintly  enough 
terms.  "The  Gentleman  Usher  of  all  Knowledge — Sermocina- 
tion  !  " 

It  was  a  pretty,  though  small  room,  where  we  dined ;  and  I 
observed  that  in  this  apartment,  as  in  the  other  into  which  I 
had  been  first  ushered,  there  were  several  books  scattered 
about,  in  that  confusion  and  number  which  show  that  they  have 
become  to  their  owner  both  the  choicest  luxury  and  the  least 
dispensable  necessary.  So,  during  dinner  time,  we  talked  prin- 
cipally upon  books,  and  I  observed  that  those  that  my  host 
seemed  to  know  the  best  were  of  the  elegant  and  poetical 
order  of  philosophers,  who,  more  fascinating  than  deep,  preach 
up  the  blessings  of  a  solitude  which  is  useless,  and  a  content, 
which,  deprived  of  passion,  excitement,  and  energy,  would,  if  it 
could  ever  exist,  only  be  a  dignified  name  for  vegetation. 

"  So,"  said  he,  when,  the  dinner  being  removed,  we  were  left 
alone  with  that  substitute  for  all  society — wine  !  "  so  you  are 
going  to  town  :  in  four  hours  more  you  will  be  in  that  great 
focus  of  noise,  falsehood,  hollow  joy,  and  real  sorrow.  Do  you 
know  that  I  have  become  so  wedded  to  the  country  that  I  can- 
not but  consider  all  those  who  leave  it  for  the  turbulent  city, 
in  the  same  light,  half  wondering,  half  compassionating,  as  that 
in  which  the  ancients  regarded  the  hardy  adventurers  who  left 
the  safe  land  and  their  happy  homes,  voluntarily  to  expose 
themselves  in  a  frail  vessel  to  the  dangers  of  an  uncertain  sea, 

•  In  the  Gerania. 


DEVtREOX.  179 

Here,  when  I  look  out  on  the  green  fields,  and  the  blue  sky, 
the  quiet  herds,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  or  scattered  over  the 
unpolluted  plains,  I  cannot  but  exclaim  with  Pliny,  'This  is 
the  true  Momaov  \ '  this  the  source  whence  flow  inspiration 
to  the  mind  and  tranquillity  to  the  heart !  And  in  my  love  of 
nature — more  confiding  and  constant  than  ever  is  the  love  we 
bear  to  women — I  cry  with  the  tender  and  sweet  TibuUus — 
'  Ego  composite  securus  acervo 
Despiciam  dites — despiciamque  famem.'"* 

"  These,"  said  I,  "  are  the  sentiments  we  all  (perhaps  the 
most  restless  of  us  the  most  passionately)  at  times  experience. 
But  there  is  in  our  hearts  some  secret,  but  irresistible,  princi- 
ple, that  impels  us,  as  a  rolling  circle,  onward,  onward,  in  the 
great  orbit  of  our  destiny  ;  nor  do  we  find  a  respite  until  the 
wheels  on  which  we  move  are  broken — at  the  tomb." 

"  Yet,"  said  my  host,  "  the  internal  principle  you  speak  of 
can  be  arrested  before  the  grave  :  at  least  stilled  and  impeded. 
You  will  smile  incredulously,  perhaps  (for  I  see  you  do  not 
know  who  I  am),  when  I  tell  you  that  I  might  once  have  been 
a  monarch,  and  that  obscurity  seemed  to  me  more  enviable 
than  empire  ;  I  resigned  the  occasion  :  the  tide  of  fortune 
rolled  onward,  and  left  me  safe,  but  solitary  and  forsaken,  upon 
the  dry  land.  If  you  wonder  at  my  choice,  you  will  wonder 
still  more  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  never  repented  it." 

Greatly  surprised,  and  even  startled,  I  heard  my  host  make 
this  strange  avowal.  "  Forgive  me,"  said  I,  "  but  you  have 
powerfully  excited  my  interest  ;  dare  I  inquire  from  whose 
experience  I  am  now  deriving  a  lesson  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  my  host,  smiling,  "  not  till  our  conversation 
is  over,  and  you  have  bid  the  old  anchorite  adieu,  in  all  pro- 
bability, for  ever :  you  will  then  know  that  you  have  conversed 
with  a  man,  perhaps  more  universally  neglected  and  con- 
temned than  any  of  his  contemporaries.  Yes,"  he  continued, 
"yes,  I  resigned  power,  and  I  got  no  praise  for  my  moderation, 
but  contempt  for  my  folly  ;  no  human  being  would  believe 
that  I  could  have  relinquished  that  treasure  through  a  disregard 
for  its  possession  which  others  would  only  have  relinquished 
through  an  incapacity  to  retain  it ;  and  that  which,  had  they 
seen  it  recorded  in  an  ancient  history,  men  would  have 
regarded  as  the  height  of  philosophy,  they  despised  when  acted 
under  their  eyes,  as  the  extremest  abasement  of  imbecility. 
Yet  I  compare  my  lot  with  that  of  the  great  man  whom  I  was 
expected  to  equal  in  ambition,  and  to  whose  grandeur  I  might 

•  Satisfied  with  my  little  hoard,  I  can  despise  wealth—and  fear  not  hunger. 


iSo  deveReujC, 

have  succeeded  ;  and  am  convinced  that  in  tliis  retreat  I  am 
more  to  be  envied  than  he  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power  and 
the  height  of  his  renown  ;  yet  is  not  happiness  the  aim  of 
wisdom  ?  if  my  choice  is  happier  than  his,  is  it  not  wiser?" 

"Alas,"  tliought  I,  "  the  wisest  men  seldom  have  the  loftiest 
genius,  and  perhaps  happiness  is  granted  rather  to  mediocrity 
of  mind  than  to  mediocrity  of  circumstance";  but  I  did  not 
give  so  uncourteous  a  reply  to  my  host  an  audible  utterance  ; 
on  the  contrary  :  "  I  do  not  doubt,"  said  I,  as  I  rose  to  depart, 
"  the  wisdom  of  a  choice  which  has  brought  you  self-gratula- 
tion.  And  it  has  been  said  by  a  man  both  great  and  good,  a 
man  to  whose  mind  was  open  the  lore  of  the  closet  and  the 
experience  of  courts — that  in  wisdom  or  in  folly,  *  the  only 
difference  between  one  man  and  anotiier,  is  whether  a  man 
governs  his  passions  or  his  passions  him.'  According  to  this 
rule,  which  indeed  is  a  classic  and  a  golden  aphorism,  Alex- 
ander, on  the  throne  of  Persia,  might  have  been  an  idiot  to 
Diogenes  in  his  tub.  And  now,  sir,  in  wishing  you  farewell, 
let  me  again  crave  your  indulgence  to  my  curiosity." 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  answered  my  host ;  and  he  led  me  once 
more  into  the  other  room.  While  they  were  preparing  my 
horse,  we  renewed  our  conversation.  To  the  best  of  my  recol- 
lection, we  talked  about  Plato ;  but  I  had  now  become  so 
impatient  to  rejoin  Isora  that  I  did  not  accord  to  my  worthy 
host  the  patient  attention  I  had  hitherto  given  him.  When  I 
took  leave  of  him  he  blessed  me,  and  placed  a  piece  of  paper 
in  my  hand  ;  "  Do  not  open  this,"  said  he,  "  till  you  are  at 
least  two  miles  hence  ;  your  curiosity  will  then  be  satisfied.  If 
ever  you  travel  this  road  again,  or  if  ever  you  pass  by  Cheshunt, 
pause  and  see  if  the  old  philosopher  is  dead.     Adieu  ! " 

And  so  we  parted. 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  had  not  passed  the  appointed  dis- 
tance of  two  miles  very  far  when  I  opened  the  paper  and  read 
the  following  words  : 

"  Perhaps,  young  stranger,  at  some  future  period  of  a  life, 
which  I  venture  to  foretell  will  be  adventurous  and  eventful,  it 
may  afford  you  a  matter  for  reflection,  or  a  resting-spot  for  a 
moral,  to  remember  that  you  have  seen,  in  old  age  and  obscur- 
ity, the  son  of  Him  who  shook  an  empire,  avenged  a  people, 
and  obtained  a  throne,  only  to  be  the  victim  of  his  own  pas- 
sions and  the  dupe  of  his  own  reason.  I  repeat  now  the  ques- 
tion I  before  put  to  you — was  the  fate  of  the  great  Protector 
fairer  than  that  of  the  despised  and  forgotten 

"Richard  Cromwell?" 


DEVEREUX.  i8l 

"So,"  thought  I,  "it  is  indeed  with  the  son  of  the  greatest 
ruler  England  or  perhaps,  in  modern  times,  Europe  has  ever 
produced,  that  I  have  held  this  conversation  upon  content ! 
Yes,  perhaps  your  fate  is  more  to  be  envied  than  that  of  your 
illustrious  father  ;  but  who  would  tx\vy  it  more  ?  Strange  that 
while  we  pretend  that  happiness  is  the  object  of  all  desire,  hap- 
piness is  the  last  thing  which  we  covet.  Love,  and  wealth,  and 
pleasure,  and  honor, — these  are  the  roads  which  we  take,  so 
long  that,  accustomed  to  the  mere  travel,  we  forget  that  it  was 
first  undertaken,  not  for  the  course,  but  the  goal  ;  and,  in  the 
common  infatuation  which  pervades  all  our  race,  we  make  the 
toil  the  meed,  and  in  following  the  means  forsake  the  end." 

I  never  saw  my  host  again  ;  very  shortly  afterward  he  died  :* 
and  fate,  which  had  marked  with  so  strong  a  separation  the 
lives  of  the  father  and  the  son,  united  in  that  death — as  its 
greatest,  so  its  only  universal,  blessing — the  philosopher  and 
the  recluse  with  the  warrior  and  the  chief  \ 


CHAPTER  V. 

In  which  the  Hero  shows  decision  on  more  points  than  one. — More  of  Isora's 
character  is  developed. 

To  use  the  fine  image  in  the  Arcadia,  it  was  "  when  the  sun,  like 
a  noble  heart,  began  to  show  his  greatest  countenance  in  his 
lowest  estate,"  that  I  arrived  at  Isora's  door.  I  had  written  to 
her  once,  to  announce  my  uncle's  death,  and  the  day  of  my 
return  ;  but  I  had  not  mentioned  in  my  letter  my  reverse  of  for- 
tunes :  I  reserved  that  communication  till  it  could  be  softened 
by  our  meeting.  I  saw  by  the  countenance  of  the  servant  Avho 
admitted  me  that  all  was  well ;  so  I  asked  no  question — I  flew 
up  the  stairs — I  broke  into  Isora's  chamber,  and  in  an  instant 
she  was  in  my  arms.  Ah,  Love,  Love  !  wherefore  art  thou  so 
transitory  a  pilgrim  on  the  earth — an  evening  cloud  which 
hovers  on  our  horizon,  drinking  the  hues  of  the  sun,  that  grows 
ominously  brighter  as  it  verges  to  the  shadow  and  the  night,  and 
which,  the  moment  that  sun  is  set,  wanders  on  in  darkness  or 
descends  in  tears  ? 

"And  now,  my  bird  of  Paradise,"  said  I,  as  we  sat  alone  in 
the  apartment  I  had  fitted  up  as  the  banqueting  room,  and  on 
which,  though  small  in  its  proportions,  I  had  lavished  all  the  love 
pf  luxury  and  show  which   made  one  of  my  most  prevailing 

*  Richard  Cromwell  died  in  1712. — Ed. 


tSi  DEVEREUX. 

weaknesses,  "  and  now,  how  has  time  passed  with  you  since  we 
parted  ? " 

"  Need  you  ask,  Morton  ?  Ah,  have  you  ever  noted  a  poor 
dog  deserted  by  its  master,  or  rather  not  deserted,  for  that  you 
know  is  not  my  case  yet,"  added  Isora  playfully,  "  but  left  at 
home  while  the  master  went  abroad  ?  have  you  noted  how  rest- 
less the  poor  animal  is — how  it  refuses  all  company  and  all  com- 
fort— how  it  goes  a  hundred  times  a  day  into  the  room  which 
its  master  is  wont  mostly  to  inhabit — how  it  creeps  on  the  sofa 
or  the  chair  which  the  same  absent  idler  was  accustomed  to 
press — how  it  selects  some  article  of  his  very  clothing,  and 
curls  jealously  around  it,  and  hides  and  watches  over  it,  as 
I  have  hid  and  watched  over  this  glove,  Morton  ?  Have 
you  ever  noted  that  humble  creature  v/hose  whole  happiness 
is  the  smile  of  one  being,  when  the  smile  was  away  ? — then, 
Morton,  you  can  tell  how  my  time  has  passed  during  your 
absence." 

I  answered  Isora  by  endearments  and  by  compliments.  She 
turned  away  from  the  latter. 

"  Never  call  me  those  fine  names,  I  implore  you,"  she  whis- 
pered ;  "call  me  only  by  those  pretty  pet  words  by  which  I  know 
you  will  never  call  any  one  else.  Bee  and  bird  are  my  names, 
and  mine  only  ;  but  beauty  and  angel  are  names  you  have  given, 
or  may  give,  to  a  hundred  others !  Promise  me,  then,  to  ad- 
dress me  only  in  our  own  language." 

"I  promise,  and  lo,  the  seal  to  the  promise.  But  tell  me, 
Isora,  do  you  not  love  these  rare  scents  that  make  an  Araby  of 
this  unmellowed  clime  ?  Do  you  not  love  the  profusion  of  light 
which  reflects  so  dazzling  a  lustre  on  that  soft  cheek — and  those 
eyes  which  the  ancient  romancer*  must  have  dreamt  of  when 
he  wrote  so  prettily  of  'eyes  that  seemed  a  temple  where  love 
and  beauty  were  married '  ?  Does  not  yon  fruit  take  a  more 
tempting  hue,  bedded  as  it  is  in  those  golden  leaves?  Does  not 
sleep  seem  to  hover  with  a  downier  wing  over  those  sofas  on 
which  the  limbs  of  a  princess  have  been  laid?  In  a  word,  is 
tliere  not  in  luxury  and  in  pomp  a  spell  which  no  gentler  or 
wiser  mind  would  disdain?" 

"  It  may  be  so  !  "  said  Isora,  sighing  ;  "  but  the  splendor  which 
surrounds  us  chills  and  almost  terrifies  me.  I  think  that  every 
proof  of  your  wealth  and  rank  puts  me  farther  from  you  ;  then, 
too,  I  have  some  remembrance  of  the  green  sod,  and  the  silver 
rill,  and  the  trees  upon  which  the  young  winds  sing  and  play — 

*  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  numher  of  quotations  from  his  works 
(cattered  in  this  book,  seems  to  have  been  an  especial  favorite  with  Count  Devereux,— Ed, 


DEVEREUX.  183 

and  I  own  that  it  is  with  the  country,  and  not  the  town,  that  all 
my  ideas  of  luxury  are  wed." 

**  But  the  numerous  attendants,  the  long  row  of  liveried  hire- 
lings, through  which  you  may  pass,  as  through  a  lane,  the  ca- 
parisoned steeds,  the  stately  equipage,  the  jewelled  tiara,  the 
costly  robe  which  matrons  imitate  and  envy,  the  music,  which 
lulls  you  to  sleep,  the  lighted  show,  the  gorgeous  stage, — all 
these,  the  attributes  or  gifts  of  wealth,  all  these  that  you  have 
the  right  to  hope  you  will  one  day  or  other  command,  you  will 
own  are  what  you  could  very  reluctantly  forego  ! " 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Morton  ?  Ah,  I  wish  you  were  of  my 
humble  temper :  the  more  we  limit  and  concentre  happiness 
the  more  certain,  I  think,  we  are  of  securing  it — they  who 
widen  the  circle  encroach  upon  the  boundaries  of  danger  ;  and 
they  who  freight  their  wealth  upon  an  hundred  vessels  are 
more  liable,  Morton,  are  they  not,  to  the  peril  of  the  winds  and 
the  waves  than  they  who  venture  it  only  upon  one  ?" 

"  Admirably  reasoned,  my  little  sophist  ;  but  if  the  one  ship 
sink?" 

"  Why,  I  would  embark  myself  in  it  as  well  as  my  wealth, 
and  should  sink  with  it." 

"Well,  well,  Isora,  your  philosophy  will,  perhaps,  soon  be 
put  to  the  test.     I  will  talk  to  you  to-morrow  of  business." 

"  And  why  not  to-night  ?  " 

"  To-night,  when  I  have  just  returned  !  No,  to-night  I  will 
only  talk  to  you  of  love  !  " 

As  may  be  supposed,  Isora  was  readily  reconciled  to  my 
change  of  circumstances,  and  indeed  that  sum  which  seemed 
poverty  to  me  appeared  positive  wealth  to  her.  But  perhaps 
few  men  are  by  nature  and  inclination  more  luxurious  and 
costly  than  myself  ;  always  accustomed  to  a  profuse  expendi- 
ture at  my  uncle's,  I  fell  insensibly  and  con  amore  on  my  debut 
in  London,  into  all  the  extravagancies  of  the  age.  Sir  William, 
pleased,  rather  than  discontented  with  my  habits,  especially  as 
they  were  attended  with  some  ddat,  pressed  upon  me  proofs  of 
his  generosity  which,  since  I  knew  his  wealth  and  considered 
myself  his  heir,  I  did  not  scruple  to  accept,  and  at  the  time  of 
my  return  to  London  after  his  death,  I  had  not  only  spent  to 
the  full  the  princely  allowance  I  had  received  from  him,  but  was 
above  half  my  whole  fortune  in  debt.  However,  I  had  horses  and 
equipages,  jewels  and  plate,  and  I  did  not  long  wrestle  with  my 
pride  before  I  obtained  the  victory,  and  sent  all  my  valuables 
to  the  hammer.  They  sold  pretty  well,  all  things  considered, 
for  I  had  a  certain  reputation  in  the  world  for  taste  and  mu- 


184  DEVEREUX." 

nificence ;  and  when  I  had  received  the  product  and  paid  my 
debts,  I  found  that  the  whole  balance  in  my  favor,  including, 
of  course,  my  uncle's  legacy,  was  fifteen  thousand  pounds. 

.  It  was  no  bad  younger  brother's  portion,  perhaps,  but  I  was  in 
no  humor  to  be  made  a  younger  brother  without  a  struggle.  So 
I  went  to  the  lawyers  ;  they  looked  at  the  will,  considered  the 
case,  and  took  their  fees.  Then  the  honestest  of  them,  with  the 
coolest  air  in  the  world,  told  me  to  content  myself  with  my 
legacy,  for  the  case  was  hopeless  ;  the  will  was  sufficient  to  ex- 
clude a  wilderness  of  elder  sons.  I  need  not  add  that  I  left  this 
lawyer  with  a  very  contemptible  opinion  of  his  understanding. 
I  went  to  another,  he  told  me  the  same  thing,  only  in  a  different 
manner,  and  I  thought  him  as  great  a  fool  as  his  fellow  prac- 
tioner.  At  last  I  chanced  upon  a  little  brisk  gentleman,  with  a 
quick  eye  and  a  sharp  voice,  who  wore  a  wig  that  carried  con- 
viction in  every  curl ;  had  an  independent,  upright  mien,  and 
such  a  logical,  emphatic  way  of  expressing  himself,  that  I  was 
quite  charmed  with  him.  This  gentleman  scarce  heard  me  out 
before  he  assured  me  that  I  had  a  famous  case  of  it,  that  he 
liked  making  quick  work,  and  proceeding  with  vigor,  that  he 
hated  rogues,  and  delay  which  was  the  sign  of  a  rogue,  but  not 
the  necessary  sign  of  law,  that  I  was  the  most  fortunate  man 
imaginable  in  coming  to  him,  and,  in  short,  that  I  had  nothing 
to  do  but  to  commence  proceedings,  and  leave  all  the  rest  to 
him.  I  was  very  soon  talked  into  this  proposal,  and  very  soon 
embarked  in  the  luxurious  ocean  of  litigation. 

Having  settled  this  business  so  satisfactorily,  I  went  to  re- 
ceive the  condolence  and  sympathy  of  St.  John.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  arduous  occupations  both  of  pleasure  and  of  power,  in 
which  he  was  constantly  engaged,  he  had  found  time  to  call 
upon  me  very  often,  and  to  express  by  letter  great  disappoint- 
ment that  I  had  neither  received  nor  returned  his  visits. 
Touched  by  the  phenomenon  of  so  much  kindness  in  a  states- 
man, I  paid  him  in  return  the  only  compliment  in  my  power, 
viz.,  I  asked  his  advice — with  a  view  of  taking  it. 

"  Politics — politics,  my  dear  Count,"  said  he,  in  answer  to 
that  request,  "  nothing  like  it  ;  I  will  get  you  a  seat  in  the 
House  by  next  week, — you  are  just  of  age,  I  think, — Heavens  ! 
a  man  like  you,  who  has  learning  enough  for  a  German  profes- 
sor— assurance  that  would  almost  abash  a  Milesian — a  very 
pretty  choice  of  words,  and  a  pointed  way  of  consummating  a 
jest — why,  with  you  by  my  side,  my  dear  Count,  I  will  soon — " 

"  St.  John,"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "  you  forget  I  am  a 
Catholic!" 


DEVEREUX.  185 

"  Ah,  I  did  forget  that,"  replied  St.  John  slowly.  "  Heaven 
help  me,  Count,  but  I  am  sorry  your  ancestors  were  not  con- 
verted ;  it  was  a  pity  they  should  bequeath  you  their  religion 
without  the  estate  to  support  it,  for  papacy  has  become  a  terri- 
ble tax  to  its  followers." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  I,  "  whether  the  earth  will  ever  be  gov- 
erned by  Christians,  not  cavillers  ;  by  followers  of  our  Saviour, 
not  by  co-operators  of  the  devil ;  by  men  who  obey  the  former, 
and  '  love  one  another,'  not  by  men  who  walk  about  with  the 
latter  (that  roaring  lion),  '  seeking  whom  they  may  devour.' 
Intolerance  makes  us  acquainted  with  strange  nonsense,  and 
folly  is  never  so  ludicrous  as  when  associated  with  something 
sacred  ;  it  is  then  like  Punch  and  his  wife  in  Powell's  puppet- 
show,  dancing  in  the  Ark.  For  example,  to  tell  those  who  differ 
from  us  that  they  are  in  a  delusion,  and  yet  to  persecute  them 
for  that  delusion,  is  to  equal  the  wisdom  of  our  forefathers, 
who,  we  are  told,  in  the  Dsemonologie  of  the  Scottish  Solomon, 
*  burnt  a  whole  raonasterie  of  nunnes  for  being  misled,  not  by 
men,  but  dreames  ! ' " 

And  being  somewhat  moved,  I  ran  on  for  a  long  time  in  a 
very  eloquent  strain,  upon  the  disadvantages  of  intolerance  ; 
which,  I  would  have  it,  was  a  policy  as  familiar  to  Protestantism 
now  as  it  had  been  to  Popery  in  the  dark  ages  ;  quite  forgetting 
that  it  is  not  the  vice  of  a  peculiar  sect,  but  of  a  ruling  party. 

St.  John,  who  thought,  or  affected  to  think,  very  differently 
from"  me  on  these  subjects,  shook  his  head  gently,  but,  with  his 
usual  good  breeding,  deemed  it  rather  too  sore  a  subject  for 
discussion. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  discovery  I  have  made,"  said  I. 

"And  what  is  it?" 

"  Listen  :  that  man  is  wisest  who  is  happiest — granted.  What 
does  happiness  consist  in  ?  Power,  wealth,  popularity,  and, 
above  all,  content  !  Well,  then,  no  man  ever  obtains  so  much 
power,  so  much  money,  so  much  popularity,  and,  above  all,  such 
thorough  self-content  as  a  fool ;  a  fool,  therefore  (this  is  no 
paradox),  is  the  wisest  of  men.  Fools  govern  the  world  in  pur- 
ple— the  wise  laugh  at  them — but  they  laugh  in  rags.  Fools 
thrive  at  court — fools  thrive  in  state  chambers — fools  thrive  in 
boudoirs — fools  thrive  in  rich  men's  legacies.  Who  is  so  be- 
loved as  a  fool  ?  Every  man  seeks  him,  laughs  at  him,  and 
hugs  him.  Who  is  so  secure  in  his  own  opinion — so  high  in 
complacency,  as  a  fool  ?  suavirtute  involvit.  Hark  ye,  St.  John, 
let  us  turn  fools — they  are  the  only  potentates — the  only  phil- 
osophers of  earth.     Oh,  motley,  '  motley's  your  only  wear  ! '  " 


l86  DEVEREUX. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  St.  John  ;  and,  rising,  he  insisted  upon 
carrying  me  with  him  to  the  rehearsal  of  a  new  play,  in  order, 
as  he  said,  to  dispel  my  spleen,  and  prepare  me  for  ripe  decision 
upon  the  plans  to  be  adopted  for  bettering  my  fortune. 

But,  in  good  truth,  nothing  calculated  to  advance  so  comfort- 
able and  praiseworthy  an  end  seemed  to  present  itself.  My  re- 
ligion was  an  effectual  bar  to  any  hope  of  rising  in  the  state. 
Europe  now  began  to  wear  an  aspect  that  promised  universal 
peace,  and  the  sword  which  I  had  so  poetically  apostrophized 
was  not  likely  to  be  drawn  upon  anymore  glorious  engagement 
than  a  brawl  with  the  Mohawks,  any  incautious  noses  apper- 
taining to  which  fraternity  I  was  fully  resolved  to  slit  whenever 
they  came  conveniently  in  my  way.  To  add  to  the  unpromis- 
ing state  of  my  worldly  circumstances,  my  uncle's  death  had  re- 
moved the  only  legitimate  barrier  to  the  acknowledgment  of  my 
marriage  with  Isora,  and  it  became  due  to  her  to  proclaim  and 
publish  that  event.  Now,  if  there  be  any  time  in  the  world 
when  a  man's  friends  look  upon  him  most  coldly,  when  they 
speak  of  his  capacities  of  rising  the  most  despondingly,  when 
they  are  most  inclined,  in  short,  to  set  him  down  as  a  silly  sort 
of  fellow,  whom  it  is  no  use  inconveniencing  oneself  to  assist, 
it  is  at  that  moment  when  he  has  made  what  the  said  friends 
are  pleased  to  term  an  imprudent  marriage  !  It  was,  therefore, 
no  remarkable  instance  of  good  luck  that  the  express  time  for 
announcing  that  I  had  contracted  that  species  of  marriage,  was 
the  express  time  for  my  wanting  the  assistance  of  those  kind- 
hearted  friends.  Then,  too,  by  the  pleasing  sympathies  in 
worldly  opinion,  the  neglect  of  one's  friends  is  always  so  damn- 
ably neighbored  by  the  exultation  of  one's  foes  !  Never  was 
there  a  man  who,  without  being  very  handsome,  very  rude,  or 
very  much  in  public  life,  had  made  unto  himself  more  enemies 
than  it  had  been  my  lot  to  make.  How  the  rascals  would  all 
sneer  and  coin  dull  jests  when  they  saw  me  so  down  in  the 
world  !  The  very  old  maids,  who,  so  long  as  they  thought  me 
single,  would  have  declared  that  the  will  was  a  fraud,  would, 
directly  they  heard  I  was  married,  ask  if  Gerald  was  handsome, 
and  assert,  with  a  wise  look,  that  my  uncle  knew  well  what  he  was 
about.  Then  the  joy  of  the  Lady  Hasselton,  and  the  curled  lip 
of  the  haughty  Tarleton  !  It  is  a  very  odd  circumstance,  but 
it  is  very  true,  that  the  people  we  most  despise  have  the  most 
influence  over  our  actions  :  a  man  never  ruins  himself  by  giv- 
ing dinners  to  hl^  father,  or  turning  his  house  into  a  palace  in 
order  to  feast  his  bosom  friend  :  on  the  contrary, 'tis  the  poor 
devil  of  a  friend  who  fares  the  worst,  and  starves  on  the  family 


DEVEREUX.  ^187 

joint,  while  mine  host  beggars  himself  to  banquet  "that  dis- 
agreeable Mr.  A.,  who  is  such  an  insufferable  ass,"  and  mine 
hostess  sends  her  husband  to  the  Fleet  by  vying  with  "  that 
odious  Mrs.  B.,  wlio  was  always  her  aversion  ! " 

Just  in  the  same  manner,  no  thought  disturbed  me,  in  the 
step  I  was  about  to  take,  half  so  sorely  as  the  recollection  of 
Lady  Hasselton  the  coquette,  and  Mr.  Tarleton  the  gambler. 
However,  I  have  said  somewhere  or  other  that  nothing  selfish 
on  a  small  scale  polluted  my  love  for  Isora — nor  did  there.  I 
had  resolved  to  render  her  speedy  and  full  justice  ;  and  if  I 
sometimes  recurred  to  the  disadvantages  to  myself,  I  always 
had  pleasure  in  thinking  that  they  were  sacrifices  to  her.  But 
to  my  great  surprise,  when  I  first  announced  to  Isora  my  inten- 
tion of  revealing  our  marriage,  I  perceived  in  her  countenance, 
always  such  a  traitor  to  her  emotions,  a  very  different  expres- 
sion from  that  which  1  had  anticipated.  A  deadly  paleness 
spread  over  her  whole  face,  and  a  shudder  seemed  to  creep 
through  her  frame.  She  attempted,  however,  to  smile  away 
the  alarm  she  had  created  in  me  ;  nor  was  I  able  to  penetrate 
the  cause  of  an  emotion  so  unlooked  for.  But  I  continued  to 
speak  of  the  public  announcement  of  our  union  as  of  a  thing 
decided  ;  and  at  length  she  listened  to  me  while  I  arranged 
the  method  of  making  it,  and  syn\pathized  in  the  future  pro- 
jects I  chalked  out  for  us  to  adopt.  Still,  however,  when  I 
proposed  a  definite  time  for  the  re-celebration  of  our  nup- 
tials, she  ever  drew  back,  and  hinted  the  wish  for  a  longer 
delay. 

**  Not  so  soon,  dear  Morton,"  she  would  say  tearfully,  "  not 
so  soon  ;  we  are  happy  now,  and  perhaps  when  you  are  with 
me  always,  you  will  not  love  me  so  well  ! " 

I  reasoned  against  this  notion,  and  this  reluctance,  but  in 
vain  ;  and  day  passed  on  day,  and  even  week  on  week,  and 
our  marriage  was  still  undeclared.  I  now  lived,  however, 
almost  wholly  with  Isora,  for  busy  tongues  could  no  longer 
carry  my  secret  to  my  uncle  ;  and,  indeed,  since  I  had  lost  the 
fortune  which  I  was  expected  to  inherit,  it  is  astonishing  how 
little  people  troubled  themselves  about  my  movements  or  my- 
self. I  lived  then  almost  wholly  with  Isora — and  did  familiar- 
ity abate  my  love  ?  Strange  to  say,  it  did  not  abate  even  the 
romance  of  it.  The  reader  may  possibly  remember  a  conver- 
sation with  St.  John  recorded  in  the  Second  Book  of  this  his- 
tory. "  The  deadliest  foe  to  love,"  said  he,  (he  who  had 
known  all  love — that  of  the  senses  and  that  also  of  the  soul), 
"  is  not  change,  nor  misfortune,  nor  jealousy,  nor  wrath,  nor 


l88  DEVEREUX. 

anything  that  flows  from  passion,  or  emanates  from  fortune. 
The  deadliest  foe  to  love  is  custom  !  " 

Was  St.  John  right  ? — I  believe  that  in  most  instances  he 
was  ;  and  perhaps  the  custom  was  not  continued  in  my  case 
long  enough  for  me  to  refute  the  maxim.  But  as  yet,  the  very 
gloss  upon  the  god's  wings  was  fresh  as  on  the  first  day  when  I 
had  acknowledged  his  power.  Still  was  Isora  to  me  the  light 
and  the  music  of  existence  ! — still  did  my  heart  thrill  and  leap 
within  me  when  her  silver  and  fond  voice  made  the  air  a  bless- 
ing. Still  Vv'ould  I  hang  over  her,  when  her  beautiful  features 
lay  hushed  in  sleep,  and  watch  the  varying  hues  of  her  cheek  ; 
and  fancy,  while  she  slept,  that  in  each  low,  sweet  breath  that 
my  lips  drew  from  hers,  was  a  whisper  of  tenderness  and  en- 
dearment !  Still  when  I  was  absent  from  her,  my  soul  seemed 
to  mourn  a  separation  from  its  better  and  dearer  part,  and  the 
joyous  senses  of  existence  saddened  and  shrunk  into  a  single 
want !  Still  was  her  presence  to  my  heart  as  a  breathing  at- 
mosphere of  poesy  which  circled  and  tinted  all  human  things  ; 
still  was  my  being  filled  with  that  delicious  and  vague  melan- 
choly which  the  very  excess  of  rapture  alone  produces — the 
knowledge  we  dare  not  breathe  to  ourselves  that  the  treasure 
in  which  our  heart  is  stored  is  not  above  the  casualties  of  fate. 
The  sigh  that  mingles  with  the  kiss,  the  tear  that  glistens  in  the 
impassioned  and  yearning  gaze,  the  deep  tide  in  our  spirit, 
over  which  the  moon  and  the  stars  have  power  ;  the  chain  of 
harmony  within  the  thought,  which  has  a  mysterious  link  with 
all  that  is  fair,  and  pure,  and  bright  in  Nature,  knitting  as  it 
were  loveliness  with  love  ! — all  this,  all  that  I  cannot  express — • 
all  that  to  the  young  for  whom  the  real  world  has  had  few 
spells,  and  the  world  of  visions  has  been  a  home,  who  love  at 
last  and  for  the  first  time, — all  that  to  them  are  known  were, 
still  mine. 

In  truth,  Isora  was  one  well  calculated  to  sustain  and  to 
rivet  romance.  The  cast  of  her  beauty  was  so  dreamlike,  and 
yet  so  varying — her  temper  was  so  little  mingled  with  the  com- 
mon characteristics  of  woman  ;  it  had  so  little  of  caprice,  so 
little  of  vanity,  so  utter  an  absence  of  all  jealous  and  all  angry 
feeling  ;  it  was  so  made  up  of  tenderness  and  devotion,  and 
yet  so  imaginative  and  fairy-like  in  its  fondness,  that  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  bear  only  the  sentiments  of  earth,  for  one  who  had  so 
little  of  earth's  clay.  She  was  more  like  the  women  whom  one 
imagines  are  the  creations  of  poetry,  and  yet  of  whom  no  poe- 
try, save  that  of  Shakspeare's,  reminds  us  ;  and  to  this  day, 
when  I  go  into  the  world,  I  never  see  aught  of  our  own  kind 


DEVEREUX.  189 

which  recalls  her,  or  even  one  of  her  features,  to  my  memory. 
But  when  I  am  alone  with  Nature,  methinks  a  sweet  sound  or  a 
new-born  flower  has  something  of  familiar  power  over  those 
stored  and  deep  impressions  which  do  make  her  image,  and  it 
brings  her  more  vividly  before  my  eyes  than  any  shape  or  face 
of  her  own  sex,  however  beautiful  it  may  be. 

There  was  also  another  trait  in  her  character  which,  though 
arising  in  her  weakness,  not  her  virtues,  yet  perpetuated  the 
more  dreamlike  and  imaginary  qualities  of  our  passion  ;  this 
was  a  melancholy  superstition,  developing  itself  in  forebodings 
and  omens  which  interested,  because  they  were  steeped  at  once 
in  the  poetry  and  in  the  deep  sincerity  of  her  nature.  She 
was  impressed  with  a  strong  and  uncontrollable  feeling  that 
her  fate  was  predestined  to  a  dark  course  and  an  early  end  ; 
and  she  drew  from  all  things  around  her  something  to  feed  the 
pensive  character  of  her  thoughts.  The  stillness  of  noon — the 
holy  and  eloquent  repose  of  twilight,  its  rosy  sky,  and  its  soft 
air,  its  shadows  and  its  dews,  had  equally  for  her  heart  a  whis- 
per and  a  spell.  The  wan  stars,  where,  from  the  eldest  time,  man 
has  shaped  out  a  chart  of  the  undiscoverable  future  ;  the  mys- 
terious moon,  to  which  the  great  ocean  ministers  from  its 
untrodden  shrines  ;  the  winds,  which  traverse  the  vast  air,  pil- 
grims from  an  eternal  home  toanunpenetrated  bourne;  the  illim- 
itable Heavens,  on  whicli  none  ever  gazed  without  a  vague  crav- 
ing for  something  that  the  earth  cannot  give,  and  a  vague  sense 
of  a  former  existence  in  which  that  something  was  enjoyed  ; 
the  holy  night — that  solemn  and  circling  sleep,  which  seems,  in 
its  repose,  to  image  our  death,  and  in  its  living  worlds  to 
shadow  forth  the  immortal  realms  which  only  through  that 
death  we  can  survey, — all  had,  for  the  deep  heart  of  Isora,  a 
language  of  omen  and  of  doom.  Often  would  we  wander 
alone,  and  for  hours  together,  by  the  quiet  and  wild  woods  and 
streams  that  surrounded  her  retreat,  and  which  we  both  loved 
so  well  ;  and  often,  when  the  night  closed  over  us,  with  my 
arm  around  her,  and  our  lips  so  near  that  our  atmosphere  was 
our  mutual  breath,  would  she  utter,  in  that  voice  which  "made 
the  soul  plant  itself  in  the  ears," — the  predictions  which  had 
nursed  themselves  at  her  heart. 

I  remember  one  evening,  in  especial  !  The  rich  twilight  had 
gathered  over  us,  and  we  sat  by  a  slender  and  soft  rivulet, 
overshadowed  by  some  stunted  yet  aged  trees.  We  had  both, 
before  she  spoke,  been  silent  for  several  minutes;  and  only 
when,  at  rare  intervals,  the  birdssentfrom  the  copse  that  backed 
us  a  solitary  and  vesper  note  of  music,  was  the  stillness  around 


tgo  DEVEREUX, 

US  broken.  Before  us,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream,  lay 
a  valley,  in  which  shadow  and  wood  concealed  all  trace  of  man's 
dwellings,  save  at  one  far  spot,  where,  from  a  single  hut,  rose 
a  curling  and  thin  vapor, — like  a  spirit  released  from  eartii,and 
losing  gradually  its  earthier  particles,  as  it  blends  itself  with 
the  loftier  atmosphere  of  Heaven. 

It  was  then  that  Isora,  clinging  closer  to  me,  whispered  her 
forebodings  of  death.  "You  will  remember,"  said  she,  smiling 
faintly,  "you  will  remember  me,  in  the  lofty  and  bright  career 
which  yet  awaits  you,  and  I  scarcely  know  whether  I  would  not 
sooner  have  that  memory — free  as  it  will  be  from  all  recol- 
lection of  my  failings  and  faults,  and  all  that  I  have  cost  you, 
than  incur  the  chance  of  your  future  coldness  or  decrease  of 
love." 

And  when  Isora  turned,  and  saw  that  the  tears  stood  in  my 
eyes,  she  kissed  them  away,  and  said,  after  a  pause: 

"  It  matters  not,  my  own  guardian  angel,  what  becomes  of 
me  :  and  now  that  I  am  near  you,  it  is  wicked  to  let  my  folly 
cost  you  a  single  pang.  But  why  should  you  grieve  at  my  fore- 
bodings ?  there  is  nothing  painful  or  harsh  in  them  to  me,  and 
I  interpret  them  thus  :  *  if  my  life  passes  away  before  the  com- 
mon date,  perhaps  it  will  be  a  sacrifice  to  yours."  And  it  will, 
Morton — it  will.  The  love  I  bear  to  you  I  can  but  feebly  ex- 
press now  ;  all  of  us  wish  to  prove  our  feelings,  and  I  would 
give  one  proof  of  mine  for  you.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  was 
made  only  for  one  purpose — to  love  you  ;  and  I  would  fain 
hope  that  my  death  may  be  some  sort  of  sacrifice  to  you — some 
token  of  the  ruling  passion  and  the  whole  object  of  my  life." 

As  Isora  said  this,  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  had  just 
risen,  shone  full  upon  her  cheek,  flushed  as  it  was  with  a  deeper 
tint  than  it  usually  wore  ;  and  in  her  eye — her  features — her 
forehead — the  lofty  nature  of  her  love  seemed  to  have  stamped 
the  divine  expression  of  itself. 

Have  I  lingered  too  long  on  these  passages  of  life, — tliey 
draw  near  to  a  close — and  a  more  adventurous  and  stirring 
period  of  manhood  will  succeed.  Ah,  little  could  they,  who  in 
after  years  beheld  in  me  but  the  careless  yet  stern  soldier — the 
companion  alternately  so  light  and  so  moodily  reserved — little 
could  they  tell  how  soft,  and  weak,  and  doting  my  heart  was 
once ! 


DEVEREUX.  191 

CHAPTER  VI. 
An  Unexpected  Meeting. — Conjecture  and  Anticipation. 

The  day  for  the  public  solemnization  of  our  marriage  was  at 
length  appointed.  In  fact,  the  plan  for  the  future  that  ap- 
peared to  me  most  promising  was  to  proffer  my  services  to  some 
foreign  Court,  and  that  of  Russia  held  out  to  me  the  greatest 
temptation.  I  was  therefore  anxious,  as  soon  as  possible,  to 
conclude  the  rite  of  a  second  or  public  nuptials,  and  I  pur- 
posed leaving  the  country  within  a  week  afterward.  My  little 
lawyer  assured  me  that  my  suit  would  go  on  quite  as  well  in 
my  absence,  and  whenever  my  presence  was  necessary  he  would 
be  sure  to  inform  me  of  it.  I  did  not  doubt  him  in  the  least — 
it  is  a  charming  thing  to  have  confidence  in  one's  man  of  business. 

Of  Montreuil  I  now  saw  nothing  ;  but  I  accidentally  heard 
that  he  was  on  a  visit  to  Gerald,  and  that  the  latter  had  already 
made  the  old  walls  ring  with  premature  hospitality.  As  for 
Aubrey,  I  was  in  perfect  ignorance  of  his  movements  ;  and  the 
unsatisfactory  shortness  of  his  last  letter,  and  the  wild  expres- 
sions so  breathing  of  fanaticism  in  the  postscript,  had  given  me 
much  anxiety  and  alarm  on  his  account.  I  longed  above  all  to 
see  him, — to  talk  with  him  over  old  times  and  our  future  plans, 
and  to  learn  whether  no  new  bias  could  be  given  to  a  tempera- 
ment which  seemed  to  lean  so  strongly  towards  a  self-punishing 
superstition.  It  was  about  a  week  before  the  day  fixed  for  my  pub- 
lic nuptials,  that  I  received  at  last  from  him  the  following  letter: 
''  Mv  Dearest  Brother  : 

**  I  have  been  long  absent  from  home — absent  on  affairs  on 
which  we  will  talk  hereafter.  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  though 
I  have  been  silent,  and  the  news  of  my  poor  uncle's  death  has 
shocked  me  greatly.  On  my  arrival  here  I  learnt  your  disap- 
pointment and  your  recourse  to  law.  I  am  not  so  much  sur- 
prised, though  I  am  as  much  grieved,  as  yourself,  for  I  will  tell 
you  now  what  seemed  to  me  unimportant  before.  On  receiv- 
ing your  letter,  requesting  consent  to  your  designed  marriage, 
my  uncle  seemed  greatly  displeased  as  well  as  vexed,  and  after- 
wards he  heard  much  that  displeased  him  more  ;  from  what 
quarter  came  his  news  I  know  not,  and  he  only  spoke  of  it  in 
innuendos  and  angry  insinuations.  As  far  as  I  was  able,  I  en- 
deavored to  learn  his  meaning,  but  could  not,  and  to  my  praises 
of  you  I  thought  latterly  he  seemed  to  lend  but  a  cold  ear  ;  he 
told  me  at  last,  when  I  was  about  to  leave  him,  that  you  had 
acted  ungratefully  to  him,  and  that  he  should  alter  his  will.  I 
scarcely  thought  of  this  speech  at  the  time,  or  rather  I  consid- 


192  DEVEREUX. 

ered  it  as  the  threat  of  a  momentary  anger.  Possibly,  however, 
it  was  the  prelude  to  that  disposition  of  property  which  has  so 
wounded  you, — I  observe  too  that  the  will  bears  date  about 
that  period.  I  mention  this  fact  to  you — you  can  draw  from 
it  what  inference  you  will  ;  but  I  do  solemnly  believe  that  Ger- 
ald is  innocent  of  any  fraud  towards  you. 

"I  am  all  anxiety  to  hear  whether  your  love  continues.  I 
beseech  you  to  write  to  me  instantly  and  inform  me  on  that 
head  as  on  all  others.     We  shall  meet  soon. 

"  Your  ever  affectionate  Brother, 

**  Aubrey  Devereux." 

There  was  something  in  this  letter  that  vexed  and  displeased 
me:  I  thought  it  breathed  a  tone  of  unkindness  and  indifference 
which  my  present  circumstances  rendered  peculiarly  inexcus- 
able. So  far,  therefore,  from  answering  it  immediately,  I  re- 
solved not  to  reply  to  it  till  after  the  solemnization  of  my  mar- 
riage. The  anecdote  of  my  uncle  startled  me  a  little  when  I 
coupled  it  with  the  words  my  uncle  had  used  toward  myself  on 
his  death-bed;  viz,  in  hinting  that  he  had  heard  some  things 
unfavorable  to  Ishra,  unnecessary  then  to  repeat;  but  still  if  my 
uncle  had  altered  his  intentions  towards  me,  would  he  not  have 
mentioned  the  change  and  its  reasons  ?  Would  he  have  written 
to  me  with  such  kindness,  or  received  me  with  such  affection  ? 
I  could  not  believe  that  he  would:  and  my  opinions  of  the  fraud 
and  the  perpetrator  were  not  a  whit  changed  by  Aubrey's  epistle. 
It  was  clear,  however,  that  he  had  joined  the  party  against  me: 
and  as  my  love  for  him  was  exceedingly  great,  I  was  much 
wounded  by  the  idea. 

"  All  leave  me,"  said  I,  "  upon  this  reverse, — all  but  Isora  ! " 
and  I  thought  with  renewed  satisfaction  on  the  step  which  was 
about  to  ensure  to  her  a  secure  home  and  an  honorable  station. 
My  fears  lest  Isora  should  again  be  molested  by  her  persecutor 
were  now  pretty  well  at  rest;  having  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind 
as  to  that  persecutor's  identity,  I  imagined  that  in  his  new  ac- 
quisition of  wealth  and  pomp,  a  boyish  and  unreturned  love 
would  easily  be  relinquished;  and  that,  perhaps,  he  would  scarcely 
regret  my  obtaining  the  prize  himself  had  sought  for,  when  in 
my  altered  fortunes  it  would  be  followed  by  such  worldly  de- 
preciation. In  short,  I  looked  upon  him  as  possessing  a  char- 
acteristic common  to  most  bad  men,  who  are  never  so  influenced 
by  love  as  they  are  by  hatred  ;  and  imagined  therefore,  that  if 
he  had  lost  the  object  of  the  love,  he  could  console  himself  by 
exulting  over  any  decline  of  prosperity  in  the  object  of  the  hate 

As  the  appointed  day  drew  near,  Isora's  despondency  seemed 


DEVEREUX.  193 

to  vanish,  and  she  listened,  with  her  usual  eagerness  in  whatever 
interested  me,  to  my  continental  schemes  of  enterprise.  I  re- 
solved that  our  second  wedding,  though  public,  should  be  modest 
and  unostentatious,  suitable  rather  to  our  fortunes  than  our 
birth.  St,  John,  and  a  few  old  friends  of  the  family,  constituted 
all  the  party  I  invited,  and  I  requested  them  to  keep  my  mar- 
riage secret  until  the  very  day  of  celebrating  it  arrived.  I  did 
this  from  a  desire  of  avoiding  compliments  intended  as  sarcasms 
and  visits  rather  of  curiosity,  than  friendship.  On  flew  the  days, 
and  it  was  now  the  one  preceding  my  wedding.  I  was  dress- 
ing to  go  out  upon  a  matter  of  business  connected  with  the 
ceremony,  and  I  then,  as  I  received  my  hat  from  Desmarais, 
for  the  first  time  thought  it  requisite  to  acquaint  that  accom- 
plished gentleman  with  the  rite  of  the  morrow.  Too  well  bred 
was  Monsieur  Desmarais  to  testify  any  other  sentiment  than 
pleasure  at  the  news;  and  he  received  my  orders  and  directions 
for  the  next  day  with  more  than  the  graceful  urbanity  which 
made  one  always  feel  quite  honored  by  his  attentions. 

"  And  how  goes  on  the  philosophy  ?  "  said  I, — "  faith,  since  I 
am  about  to  be  married,  I  shall  be  likely  to  require  its  conso- 
lations." 

"  Indeed,  Monsieur,"  answered  Desmarais,  with  that  expres- 
sion of  self-conceit  which  was  so  curiously  interwoven  with  the 
obsequiousness  of  his  address,  "  indeed.  Monsieur,  I  have  been 
so  occupied  of  late  in  preparing  a  little  powder  very  essential 
to  dress,  that  I  have  not  had  time  for  any  graver,  though  not 
perhaps  more  important,  avocations." 

"  Powder — and  what  is  it?" 

"Will  Monsieur  condescend  to  notice  its  effect  ?"  answered 
Desmarais,  producing  a  pair  of  gloves  which  were  tinted  of  the 
most  delicate  flesh-color;  the  coloring  was  so  nice  that,  when 
the  gloves  were  on,  it  would  have  been  scarcely  possible,  at  any 
distance,  to  distinguish  them  from  the  naked  flesh. 

"  'Tis  a  rare  invention,"  said  I. 

"Monsieur  is  very  good,  but  I  flatter  myself  it  is  so,"  rejoined 
Desmarais;  and  he  forthwith  ran  on  far  more  earnestly  on  the 
merits  of  his  powder  than  I  have  ever  heard  him  descant  on  the 
beauties  of  Fatalism.  I  cut  him  short  in  the  midst  of  his  har- 
angue; too  much  eloquence  in  any  line  is  displeasing  in  one's 
dependent. 

I  had  just  concluded  my  business  abroad,  and  was  returning 
homeward  with  downcast  eyes,  and  in  a  very  abstracted  mood, 
when  I  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  loud  voice  that  exclaimed  in 
a  tone  of  surprise: "  What! — Count  Devereux — how  fortunate! " 


194  DEVEREUX. 

I  looked  up,  and  saw  a  little,  dark  man,  shabbily  dressed;  his 
face  did  not  seem  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  I  could  not  at  first  re- 
member where  I  had  seen  it — my  look,  I  suppose,  testified  my 
want  of  memory,  for  lie  said,  with  a  low  bow — 

"You  have  forgotten  me,  Count,  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it;  so 
please  you,  I  am  the  person  who  once  brought  you  a  letter  from 
France  to  Devereux  Court," 

At  this,  I  recognized  the  bearer  of  that  epistle  which  had 
embroiled  me  with  the  Ahh6  Montreuil.  I  was  too  glad  of  the 
meeting  to  show  any  coolness  in  my  reception  of  the  gentleman, 
and,  to  speak  candidly,  I  never  saw  a  gentleman  less  troubled 
with  mauvaise  honte. 

*'  Sir! "  said  he,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  it  is  most 
fortunate  that  I  should  thus  have  met  you;  I  only  came  to  town 
this  morning,  and  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeking  you  out.  I 
am  charged  with  a  packet,  which  I  bdieve  will  be  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  your  interests.  But,"  he  added,  looking  round, 
"the  streets  are  no  proper  place  for  my  communication;  par- 
bleu,  there  are  those  about  who  hear  whispers  through  stone 
walls — suffer  me  to  call  upon  you  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  !  it  is  a  day  of  great  business  with  me,  but  I  can 
possibly  spare  you  a  few  moments,  if  that  will  suffice;  or,  on  the  day 
after,  your  own  pleasure  may  be  the  sole  limit  of  our  interview." 

"  Parbleu,  Monsieur,  you  are  very  obliging — very;  but  I  will 
tell  you  in  one  word  who  I  am,  and  what  is  my  business.  My 
name  is  Marie  Oswald;  I  was  born  in  France,  and  I  am  the 
half-brother  of  that  Oswald  who  drew  up  your  uncle's  will." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "is  it  possible  that  you  know 
anything  of  that  affair  ?  " 

"Hush — yes,  all!  my  poor  brother  is  just  dead  ;  and,  in  a 
word,  I  am  charged  with  a  packet  given  me  by  him  on  his  death- 
bed.    Now,  will  you  see  me  if  I  bring  it  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Certainly;  can  I  not  see  you  to-night  ?" 

"  To-night  ? — No,  not  well;  parbleu  !  I  want  a  little  consider- 
ation as  to  the  reward  due  to  me  for  my  eminent  services  to 
your  lordship.     No:  let  it  be  to-morrow." 

"  Well!  at  what  hour  !     I  fear  it  must  be  in  the  evening." 

"  Seven,  sil  vous  plait,  Monsieur." 

"  Enough  !  be  it  so." 

And  Mr.  Marie  Oswald,  who  seemed,  during  the  whole  of  this 
short  conference,  to  have  been  under  some  great  apprehension 
of  being  seen  or  overheard,  bowed,  and  vanished  in  an  instant, 
leaving  my  mind  in  a  most  motley  state  of  incoherent,  unsatis- 
factory, yet  sanguine  conjecture. 


DEVEREUX.  t95 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Events  of  a  Single  Night. — Moments  make  the  Hues  in  which  Years 

are  colored. 

Men  of  the  old  age !  what  wonder  that  in  the  fondness  of  a 
dim  faith,  and  in  the  vague  guesses  which,  from  the  frail  ark 
of  reason,  we  send  to  hover  over  a  dark  and  unfathomable 
abyss, — what  wonder  that  ye  should  have  wasted  hope  and  life 
in  striving  to  penetrate  the  future  !  What  wonder  that  ye 
should  have  given  a  language  to  the  stars,  and  to  the  night  a 
spell,  and  gleaned  from  the  uncomprehended  earth  an  answer 
to  the  enigmas  of  Fate  !  We  are  like  the  sleepers  who,  walking 
under  the  influence  of  a  dream,  wander  by  the  verge  of  a  pre- 
cipice, while,  in  their  own  deluded  vision,  they  perchance  be- 
lieve themselves  surrounded  by  bowers  of  roses,  and  accom- 
panied by  those  they  love.  Or  rather  like  the  blind  man,  who 
can  retrace  every  step  of  the  path  he  has  once  trodden,  but  who 
can  guess  not  a  single  inch  of  that  which  he  has  not  yet  tra- 
velled, our  reason  can  re-guide  us  over  the  roads  of  past  experi- 
ence with  a  sure  and  unerring  wisdom,  even  while  it  recoils, 
baffled  and  bewildered,  before  the  blackness  of  the  very  mo- 
ment whose  boundaries  we  are  about  to  enter. 

The  few  friends  I  had  invited  to  my  wedding  were  still  with 
me,  when  one  of  my  servants,  not  Desmarais,  informed  me  that 
Mr.  Oswald  waited  for  me.     I  went  out  to  him. 

''''  Parbleu  !  "  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands,  **  I  perceive  it  is  a 
joyous  time  with  you,  and  I  don't  wonder  you  can  only  spare 
me  a  few  moments." 

The  estates  of  Devereux  were  not  to  be  risked  for  a  trifle, 
but  I  thought  Mr.  Marie  Oswald  exceeding  impertinent.  "  Sir," 
said  I  very  gravely,  "  pray  be  seated  :  and  now  to  business. 
In  the  first  place,  may  I  ask  to  whom  I  am  beholden  for  send- 
ing you  with  that  letter  you  gave  me  at  Devereux  Court  ?  and 
secondly,  what  that  letter  contained  ? — for  I  never  read  it." 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  man,  "  the  history  of  the  letter  is  per- 
fectly distinct  from  that  of  the  will,  and  the  former  (to  discuss 
the  least  important  first)  is  briefly  this.  You  have  heard,  sir,  of 
the  quarrels  between  Jesuit  and  Jansenist  ? " 

"  I  have." 

*'  Well — but  first.  Count,  let  me  speak  of  myself.  There  were 
three  young  men  of  the  same  age,  born  in  the  same  village  in 
France,  of  obscure  birth  each,'and  each  desirous  of  getting  on 
in  the  world.  Two  were  deuced  clever  fellows  :  the  third  noth- 
ing particular.     One  of  the  two  at  present  shall  be  nameless  ; 


196  DEVEREUX. 

the  third,  'who  was  nothing  particular '  (in  his  own  opinion,  at 
least,  though  his  friends  may  think  differently),  was  Marie 
Oswald.  We  soon  separated  :  I  went  to  Paris,  was  employed 
in  different  occupations,  and  at  last  became  secretary,  and  (why 
should  I  disavow  it  ?)  valet  to  a  lady  of  quality,  and  a  violent 
politician.  She  was  a  furious  Jansenist  ;  of  course  I  adopted 
her  opinions.  About  this  time,  there  was  much  talk  among  the 
Jesuits,  of  the  great  genius  and  deep  learning  of  a  young  mem- 
ber of  the  order — Julian  Montreuil.  Though  not  residing  in 
the  country,  he  had  sent  one  or  two  books  to  France,  which  had 
been  published  and  had  created  a  great  sensation.  Well,  sir, 
my  mistress  was  the  greatest  intriguante  of  her  party  :  she  was 
very  rich,  and  tolerably  liberal  ;  and,  among  other  packets  of 
which  a  messenger  from  England  was  carefully  robbed,  between 
Calais  and  Abbeville  (you  understand  me,  sir,  rtfr<r/i?///>' robbed: 
parbleu  !  I  wish  I  were  robbed  in  the  same  manner  every  day 
in  my  life  !)  was  one  from  the  said  Julian  Montreuil  to  a  politi- 
cal friend  of  his.  Among  other  letters  in  this  packet — all  of 
importance — was  one  descriptive  of  the  English  family  with 
whom  he  resided.  It  hit  them  all,  I  am  told,  off  to  a  hair  ; 
and  it  described,  in  particular,  one,  the  supposed  inheritor  of 
the  estates,  a  certain  Morton,  Count  Devereux.  Since  you  say 
you  did  not  read  the  letter,  I  spare  your  blushes,  sir,  and  I 
don't  dwell  upon  what  he  said  of  your  talent,  energy,  ambition, 
etc.  I  will  only  tell  you  that  he  dilated  far  more  upon  your 
prospects  than  your  powers ;  and  that  he  expressly  stated  what 
was  his  object  in  staying  in  your  family  and  cultivating  your 
friendship — he  expressly  stated  that  ;;i^3o,ooo  a  year  would  be 
particularly  serviceable  to  a  certain  political  cause  which  he  had 
strongly  at  heart." 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  I  ;  "the  Chevalier's  ?" 

"  Exactly.  '  This  sponge,*  said  Montreuil, — I  remember  the 
yery  phrase — *  this  sponge  will  be  well  filled,  and  I  am  handling 
it  softly  now,  in  order  to  squeeze  its  juices  hereafter  according 
to  the  uses  of  the  party  we  have  so  strongly  at  heart.'  " 

"  It  was  not  a  metaphor  very  flattering  to  my  understanding," 
said  I. 

"  True,  sir.  Well;  as  soon  as  my  mistress  learnt  this,  she  re- 
membered that  your  father,  the  Marshal,  had  been  one  of  her 
plus  chers  amis — in  a  word,  if  scandal  says  true,  he  had  been 
the  cher  ami.  However,  she  was  instantly  resolved  to  open  your 
eyes,  and  ruin  the  maudit  Jdsvife :  she  enclosed  the  letter  in 
an  envelope,  and  sent  me  to  England  with  it.  I  came — I  gave 
it  you— and  I  discovered,  in  that  moment,  when  the  Abb^  en- 


DEVEREUX.  197 

tered,  that  this  Julian  Montreuil  was  an  old  acquaintance  of 
my  own — was  one  of  the  two  young  men  who  I  told  you  were 
such  deuced  clever  fellows.  Like  many  other  adventurers,  he 
had  changed  his  name  on  entering  the  world,  and  I  had  never 
till  now  suspected  that  Julian  Montreuil  was  Bertrand  Collinot. 
Well,  when  I  saw  what  1  had  done,  I  was  exceedingly  sorry,  for 
I  had  liked  my  companion  well  enough  not  to  wish  to  hurt  him; 
besides,  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  I  took  horse,  and  went 
about  some  other  business  I  had  to  execute,  nor  did  I  visit  that 
part  of  the  country  again,  till  a  week  ago  (now  I  come  to  the 
other  business),  when  I  was  summoned  to  the  death-bed  of  my 
half-brother,  the  attorney,  peace  be  with  him  !  He  suffered 
much  from  hypochondria  in  his  dying  moments — I  believe  it 
is  the  way  with  people  of  his  profession — and  he  gave  me  a 
sealed  packet,  with  a  last  injunction  to  place  it  in  your  hands, 
and  your  hands  only.  Scarce  was  he  dead — (do  not  think  I 
am  unfeeling,  sir,  I  had  seen  very  little  of  him,  and  he  was 
only  my  half-brother,  my  father  having  married  for  a  second 
wife  a  foreign  lady,  who  kept  an  inn,  by  whom  he  was  blessed 
with  myself) — scarce,  I  say,  was  he  dead  when  I  hurried  up  to 
town  ;  Providence  threw  you  in  my  way,  and  you  shall  have 
the  document  upon  two  conditions." 

"  Which  are,  first  to  reward  you  ;  secondly,  to — " 

"  To  promise  you  will  not  open  the  packet  for  seven  days." 

"  The  devil !  and  why  ? " 

"I  will  tell  you  candidly  : — one  of  the  papers  in  the  packet 
I  believe  to  be  my  brother's  written  confession — nay,  I  know 
it  is — and  it  will  criminate  one  I  have  a  love  for,  and  who,  I 
am  resolved,  shall  have  a  chance  of  escape." 

"  Who  is  that  one  ?     Montreuil  ? " 

"  No — I  do  not  refer  to  him  ;  but  I  cannot  tell  you  more.  I 
require  the  promise,  Count — it  is  indispensable.  If  you  don't 
give  it  me,  parbleu,  you  shall  not  have  the  packet." 

There  was  something  so  cool,  so  confident,  and  so  impudent 
about  this  man  that  I  did  not  well  know  whether  to  give  way 
to  laughter  or  to  indignation.  Neither,  however,  would  have 
been  politic  in  my  situation  ;  and,  as  I  said  before,  the  estates 
of  Devereux  were  not  to  be  risked  for  a  trifle. 

*'  Pray,"  said  I,  however,  with  a  shrewdness  which  I  think 
did  me  credit — "  pray,  Mr.  Marie  Oswald,  do  you  expect  the 
reward  before  the  packet  is  opened  ? " 

"  By  no  means,"  answered  the  gentleman  who  in  his  own 
opinion  was  nothing  particular;  "by  no  means;  nor  until  you 
and  your  lawyers  are  satisfied  that  the  papers  enclosed  in  the 


198  DEVEREUX. 

packet  are  sufficient  fully  to  restore  you  to  the  heritage  of 
Devereux  Court  and  its  demesnes." 

There  was  something  fair  in  this  ;  and  as  the  only  penalty  to 
me,  incurred  by  the  stipulated  condition,  seemed  to  be  the 
granting  escape  to  the  criminals,  I  did  not  think  it  incumbent 
upon  me  to  lose  my  cause  from  the  desire  of  a  prosecution. 
Besides,  at  that  time,  I  felt  too  happy  to  be  revengeful ;  and 
so,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  I  acceded  to  the  proposal, 
and  gave  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  Mr,  Oswald  obligingly  dis- 
pensed with  an  oath — that  I  would  not  open  the  packet  till  the 
end  of  the  seventh  day.  Mr.  Oswald  then  drew  forth  a  piece 
of  paper,  on  which  sundry  characters  were  inscribed,  the  pur- 
port of  which  was  that  if,  through  the  papers  given  me  by 
Marie  Oswald,  my  lawyers  were  convinced  that  I  could  become 
master  of  my  uncle's  property,  now  enjoyed  by  Gerald 
Devereux,  I  should  bestow  on  the  said  Marie  ;!^5ooo  :  half  on 
obtaining  this  legal  opinion,  half  on  obtaining  possession  of  the 
property.  I  could  not  resist  a  smile,  when  I  observed  that 
the  word  of  a  gentleman  was  enough  surety  for  the  safety  of 
the  man  he  had  a  love  for,  but  that  Mr.  Oswald  required  a 
written  bond  for  the  safety  of  his  reward.  One  is  ready  enough 
to  trust  one's  friends  to  the  conscience  of  another,  but  as  long 
as  a  law  can  be  had  instead,  one  is  rarely  so  credulous  in 
respect  to  one's  money. 

"  The  reward  shall  be  doubled  if  I  succeed,"  said  I,  signing 
the  paper ;  and  Oswald  then  produced  a  packet,  on  which  was 
writ,  in  a  trembling  hand — "  For  Count  Devereux — private — 
and  with  haste."  As  soon  as  he  had  given  me  this  precious 
charge,  and  reminded  me  again  of  my  promise,  Oswald  with- 
drew. I  placed  the  packet  in  my  bosom,  and  returned  to  my 
guests. 

Never  had  my  spirit  been  so  light  as  it  was  that  evening. 
Indeed  the  good  people  I  had  assembled  thought  matrimony 
never  made  a  man  so  little  serious  before.  They  did  not  how- 
ever stay  long,  and  the  moment  they  were  gone,  I  hastened  to 
my  own  sleeping  apartment,  to  secure  the  treasure  I  had 
acquired.  A  small  escritoire  stood  in  this  room,  and  in  it  I 
was  accustomed  to  keep  whatever  I  considered  most  precious. 
With  many  a  wistful  look  and  murmur  at  my  promise,  I  con- 
signed the  packet  to  one  of  the  drawers  of  this  escritoire.  As 
I  was  locking  the  drawer,  the  sweet  voice  of  Desmarais  accosted 
me.  Would,  Monsieur,  he  asked,  suffer  him  to  visit  a  friend 
that  evening  in  order  to  celebrate  so  joyful  an  event  in 
Monsieur's  destiny  ?    It  was  not  often  that  he  was  addicted  to 


DEVEREUX.  199 

vuigar  merriment,  but  on  such  an  occasion  he  owned  that  he 
was  tempted  to  transgress  his  customary  habits,  and  he  felt 
that  Monsieur,  with  his  usual  good  taste,  would  feel  offended 
if  his  servant,  within  Monsieur's  own  house,  suffered  joy  to 
pass  the  limits  of  discretion,  and  enter  the  confines  of  noise  and 
inebriety,  especially  as  Monsieur  had  so  positively  interdicted 
all  outward  sign  of  extra  hilarity.  He  implored  mille pardotis 
for  the  presumption  of  his  request. 

"  It  is  made  with  your  usual  discretion — there  are  five  guineas 
for  you  :  go  and  get  drunk  with  your  friend,  and  be  merry 
instead  of  wise.  But,  tell  me,  is  it  not  beneath  a  philosopher 
to  be  moved  by  anything,  especially  anything  that  Ocours  to 
another — much  less  to  get  drunk  upon  it  ?" 

"  Pardon  me.  Monsieur,"  answered  Desmarais,  bowing  to  the 
ground  ;  "  one  ought  to  get  drunk  sometimes,  because  the  next 
morning  one  is  sure  to  be  thoughtful ;  and,  moreover,  the 
practical  philosopher  ought  to  indulge  every  emotion  in  order 
to  judge  how  that  emotion  would  affect  another;  at  least,  this 
is  my  opinion." 

"Well,  go." 

"  My  most  grateful  thanks  be  with  Monsieur ;  Monsieur's 
nightly  toilet  is  entirely  prepared." 

And  away  went  Desmarais,  with  the  light,  yet  slow,  step  with 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  combine  elegance  with  dignity. 

I  now  passed  into  the  room  I  had  prepared  for  Isora's 
boudoir.  I  found  her  leaning  by  the  window,  and  I  perceived 
that  she  had  been  in  tears.  As  I  paused  to  contemplate  her 
figure,  so  touchingly,  yet  so  unconsciously  mournful  in  its 
beautiful  and  still  posture,  a  more  joyous  sensation  than  was 
wont  to  mingle  with  my  tenderness  for  her  swelled  at  my  heart. 
"  Yes,"  thought  I,  "  you  are  no  longer  the  solitary  exile,  or  the 
persecuted  daughter  of  a  noble  but  ruined  race  ;  you  are  not 
even  the  bride  of  a  man  who  must  seek  in  foreign  climes, 
through  danger  and  through  hardship,  to  repair  a  broken  for- 
tune and  establish  an  adventurer's  name  !  At  last  the  clouds 
have  rolled  from  the  bright  star  of  your  fate — wealth,  and 
pomp,  and  all  that  awaits  the  haughtiest  of  England's  matrons 
shall  be  yours."  And  at  these  thoughts.  Fortune  seemed  to  be 
a  gift  a  thousand  times  more  precious  than — much  as  my 
luxuries  prized  it — it  had  ever  seemed  to  me  before. 

I  drew  near  and  laid  my  hand  upon  Isora's  shoulder  and 
kissed  her  cheek.  She  did  not  turn  round,  but  strove,  by 
bending  over  my  hand  and  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  to  conceal 
that  she  had  been  weeping.     1  thought  it  kinder  to  favor  the 


iC6  CeVEREUX. 

artifice  than  to  complain  of  it.  I  remained  silent  for  some 
moments,  and  I  then  gave  vent  to  the  sanguine  expectations 
for  the  future  which  my  new  treasure  entitled  me  to  form.  I 
had  already  narrated  to  her  the  adventure  of  the  day  before — I 
now  repeated  the  purport  of  my  last  interview  with  Oswald  ; 
and,  growing  more  and  more  elated  as  I  proceeded,  I  dwelt  at 
last  upon  the  description  of  my  inheritance,  as  glowingly  as  if 
I  had  already  recovered  it.  I  painted  to  her  imagination  its 
rich  woods  and  its  glassy  lake,  and  the  fitful  and  wandering 
brook  that,  through  brake  and  shade,  went  bounding  on  its  wild 
way  ;  I  told  her  of  my  early  roamings,  and  dilated  with  a  boy's 
rapture  upon  my  favorite  haunts.  I  brought  visibly  before  her 
glistening  and  eager  eyes  the  thick  copse  where,  hour  after 
hour,  in  vague  verse  and  still  vaguer  dreams,  I  had  so  often 
whiled  away  the  day  ;  the  old  tree  which  1  had  climbed  to  watch 
the  birds  in  their  glad  mirth,  or  to  listen  unseen  to  the  melancholy 
sound  of  the  forest  deer  ;  the  antique  gallery  and  the  vast  hall 
which,  by  the  dim  twilights,  I  had  paced  with  a  religious  awe, 
and  looked  upon  the  pictured  forms  of  my  bold  fathers,  and 
mused  high  and  ardently  upon  my  destiny  to  be ;  the  old  gray 
tower  which  I  had  consecrated  to  myself,  and  the  unwitnessed 
path  which  led  to  the  yellow  beach,  and  the  wide  gladness  of 
the  solitary  sea  ;  the  little  arbor  which  my  earliest  ambition 
had  reared,  that  looked  out  upon  the  joyous  flowers  and  the 
merry  fountain,  and,  through  the  ivy  and  the  jessamine,  wooed 
the  voice  of  the  bird,  and  the  murmur  of  the  summer  bee  ;  and, 
when  I  had  exhausted  my  description,  I  turned  to  Isora,  and 
said  in  a  lower  tone,  "  And  I  shall  visit  these  once  more,  and 
with  you." 

Isora  sighed  faintly,  and  it  was  not  till  I  had  pressed  her  to 
speak  that  she  said  : 

"  I  wish  I  could  deceive  myself,  Morton,  but  I  cannot — I 
cannot  root  from  my  heart  an  impression  that  I  shall  never 
again  quit  this  dull  city,  with  its  gloomy  walls  and  its  heavy  air. 
A  voice  within  me  seems  to  say — '  Behold  from  this  very  win- 
dow the  boundaries  of  your  living  wanderings  ! '  " 

Isora's  words  froze  all  my  ])revious  exaltation.  "  It  is  in 
vain,"  said  I,  after  chiding  her  for  her  despondency,  "  it  is  in 
vain  to  tell  me  that  you  have  for  this  gloomy  notion  no  other 
reason  than  that  of  a  vague  presentiment.  It  is  time  now  that 
I  should  press  you  to  a  greater  confidence  upon  all  points  con- 
sistent with  your  oath  to  our  mutual  enemy  than  you  have 
hitherto  given  me.  Speak,  dearest,  have  you  not  some  yet  un- 
Tevealed  causes  for  alarm  ?  " 


DEVEREU5i.  561 

It  was  but  for  a  moment  that  Isora  hesitated  before  she 
answered  with  that  quick  tone  which  indicates  that  we  force 
words  against  the  will. 

"  Yes,  Morton,  I  will  tell  you  now,  though  I  would  not  before 
the  event  of  this  day.  On  the  last  day  that  I  saw  that  fearful 
man,  he  said,  *  I  warn  you,  Isora  D'Alvarez,  that  my  love  is 
far  fiercer  than  hatred ;  I  warn  you  that  your  bridals  with 
Morton  Devereux  shall  be  stained  with  blood.  Become  his 
wife,  and  you  perish  !  Yes,  though  I  suffer  hell's  tortures  for- 
ever and  forever  from  that  hour,  my  own  hand  shall  strike  you 
to  the  heart ! '  Morton,  these  words  have  thrilled  through  me 
again  and  again,  as  if  again  they  were  breathed  in  my  very  ear; 
and  I  have  often  started  at  night  and  thought  the  very  knife 
glittered  at  my  breast.  So  long  as  our  wedding  was  concealed, 
and  concealed  so  closely,  I  was  enabled  to  quiet  my  fears  till 
they  scarcely  seemed  to  exist.  But  when  our  nuptials  were  to 
be  made  public,  when  I  knew  that  they  were  to  reach  the  ears 
of  that  fierce  and  unaccountable  being,  I  thought  I  heard  my 
doom  pronounced.  This,  mine  own  love,  must  excuse  your 
Isora,  if  she  seemed  ungrateful  for  your  generous  eagerness  to 
announce  our  union.  And  perhaps  she  would  not  have  ac- 
ceded to  it  so  easily  as  she  has  done  were  it  not  that,  in  the 
first  place,  she  felt  it  was  beneath  your  wife  to  suffer  any 
terror  so  purely  selfish  to  make  her  shrink  from  the  proud 
happiness  of  being  yours  in  the  light  of  day  ;  and  if  she  had 
not  felt  (here  Isora  hid  her  blushing  face  in  my  bosom)  that 
she  was  fated  to  give  birth  to  another,  and  that  the  announce- 
ment of  our  wedded  love  had  become  necessary  to  your  honor 
as  to  mine  ! " 

Though  I  was  in  reality  awed  even  to  terror  by  learning 
from  Isora's  lip  so  just  a  cause  for  her  forebodings — though  I 
shuddered  with  a  horror  surpassing  even  my  wrath,  when  I 
heard  a  threat  so  breathing  of  deadly  and  determined  passions — 
yet  I  concealed  my  emotions,  and  only  thought  of  cheering 
and  comforting  Isora.  I  represented  to  her  how  guarded  and 
vigilant  should  ever  henceforth  be  the  protection  of  her  hus- 
band ;  that  nothing  should  again  separate  him  from  her  side ; 
that  the  extreme  malice  and  fierce  persecution  of  this  man 
were  sufficient  even  to  absolve  her  conscience  from  the  oath  of 
concealment  she  had  taken  ;  that  I  would  procure  from  the 
sacred  head  of  our  church  her  own  absolution  from  that  vow; 
that  the  moment  concealment  was  over,  I  could  take  steps  to 
prevent  the  execution  of  my  rival's  threats  ;  that,  however  near 
to  me  he  might  be  in  blood,  no  consequences  arising  from  a 


it2  DEVfiREUX. 

dispute  between  us  could  be  so  dreadful  as  the  least  evil  to 
Isora ;  and,  moreover,  to  appease  her  fears,  that  I  would  sol- 
emnly promise  he  should  never  sustain  personal  assault  or 
harm  from  my  hand  ;  in  short,  I  said  all  that  my  anxiety  could 
dictate,  and  at  last  I  succeeded  in  quieting  her  fears,  and  she 
smiled  as  brightly  as  the  first  time  1  had  seen  her  in  the  little 
cottage  of  her  father.  She  seemed,  however,  averse  to  an 
absolution  from  her  oath,  for  she  was  especially  scrupulous  as 
to  the  sanctity  of  those  religious  obligations ;  but  I  secretly 
resolved  that  her  safety  absolutely  required  it,  and  that  at  all 
events  I  would  procure  absolution  from  my  own  promise  to  her. 

At  last  Isora,  turning  from  that  topic,  so  darkly  interesting, 
pointed  to  the  heavens,  which,  with  their  thousand  eyes  of 
light,  looked  down  upon  us.  "  Tell  me,  love,"  said  she  play- 
fully, as  her  arm  embraced  me  yet  more  closely,  "  if,  among 
yonder  stars  we  could  chose  a  home,  which  should  we  select  ?" 

I  pointed  to  one  which  lay  to  the  left  of  the  moon,  and  which, 
though  not  larger,  seemed  to  bum  with  an  intenser  lustre  than 
the  rest.  Since  that  night  it  has  ever  been  to  me  a  fountain  of 
deep  and  passionate  thought,  a  well  wlierein  fears  and  hopes 
are  buried,  a  mirror  in  which,  in  stormy  times,  I  have  fancied 
to  read  my  destiny,  and  to  find  some  mysterious  omen  of  my 
intended  deeds,  a  haven  which  1  believe  others  have  reached 
before  me,  and  a  home  immortal  and  unchanging,  where,  when 
my  wearied  and  fettered  soul  is  escaped,  as  a  bird,  it  shall  flee 
away,  and  have  its  rest  at  last. 

"  What  think  you  of  my  choice  ?"  said  I.  Isora  looked  up- 
ward, but  did  not  answer ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  her  (while  the 
pale  light  of  heaven  streamed  quietly  upon  her  face)  with  her 
dark  eyes,  where  the  tear  yet  lingered,  though  rather  to  soften 
than  to  dim,  with  her  noble,  yet  tender  features,  over  which 
hung  a  melancholy  calm,  with  her  lips  apart,  and  her  rich  locks 
wreathing  over  her  marble  brow,  and  contrasted  by  a  single 
white  rose  (that  rose  I  have  now — 1  would  not  lose  one  with- 
ered leaf  of  it  for  a  kingdom  !) — her  beauty  never  seemed  to 
me  of  so  rare  an  order,  nor  did  my  soul  ever  yearn  towards  her 
with  so  deep  a  love. 

It  was  past  midnight.  All  was  hushed  in  our  bridal  chamber. 
The  single  lamp,  which  hung  above,  burnt  still  and  clear;  and 
through  the  half-closed  curtains  of  the  window  the  moonlight 
looked  in  upon  our  couch,  quiet,  and  pure,  and  holy,  as  if  it 
were  charged  with  blessings. 

"Hush!"  said  Isora  gently;  "do  you  not  hear  a  noise 
below ! " 


DEVEREUX.  203 

"Not  a  breath,"  said  I ;  "I  hear  not  a  breath,  save  yours." 

"It  was  my  fancy,  then!"  said  Isora,  "and  it  has  ceased 
now";  and  she  clung  closer  to  my  breast  and  fell  asleep.  I 
looked  on  her  peaceful  and  childish  countenance,  with  that 
concentrated  and  full  delight  with  which  we  clasp  all  that  the 
universe  holds  dear  to  us,  and  feel  as  if  the  universe  held 
nought  beside — and  thus  sleep  also  crept  upon  me. 

I  awoke  suddenly  ;  I  felt  Isora  trembling  palpably  by  my 
side.  Before  I  could  speak  to  her,  I  saw  standing  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  bed,  a  man  wrapt  in  a  long  dark  cloak  and 
masked  ;  but  his  eyes  shown  through  the  mask,  and  they  glared 
full  upon  me.  He  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  and  perfectly 
motionless  ;  but  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  before  the  escri- 
toire in  which  I  had  locked  the  important  packet,  stood  an- 
other man,  also  masked,  and  wrapped  in  a  disguising  cloak  of 
similar  hue  and  fashion.  This  man,  as  if  alarmed,  turned 
suddenly,  and  I  perceived  then  that  the  escritoire  was  already 
opened,  and  that  the  packet  was  in  his  hand.  I  tore  myself 
from  Isora's  clasp — I  stretched  my  hand  to  the  table  by  my 
bedside,  upon  which  I  had  left  my  sword, — it  was  gone  !  No 
matter  !  I  was  young,  strong,  fierce,  and  the  stake  at  hazard 
was  great.  I  sprung  from  the  bed,  I  precipitated  myself  upon 
the  man  who  held  the  packet.  With  one  hand  I  grasped  at  the 
important  document,  with  the  other  I  strove  to  tear  the  mask 
from  the  robber's  face.  He  endeavored  rather  to  shake  me  off 
than  to  attack  me  ;  and  it  was  not  till  I  had  nearly  succeeded 
in  unmasking  him  that  he  drew  forth  a  short  poniard,  and 
stabbed  me  in  the  side.  The  blow,  which  seemed  purposely 
aimed  to  avoid  a  mortal  part,  staggered  me,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  I  renewed  my  gripe  at  the  packet — I  tore  it  from  the 
robber's  hand,  and  collecting  my  strength,  now  fast  ebbing 
away,  for  one  effort,  I  bore  my  assailant  to  the  ground,  and  fell 
struggling  with  him. 

But  my  blood  flowed  fast  from  my  wound,  and  my  antagonist, 
if  less  sinewy  than  myself,  had  greatly  the  advantage  in  weight 
and  size.  Now  for  one  moment  I  was  uppermost,  but  in  the 
next  his  knee  was  upon  my  chest,  and  his  blade  gleamed  on 
high  in  the  pale  light  of  the  lamp  and  moon.  I  thought  I  be- 
held my  death — would  to  God  that  I  had  !  With  a  piercing 
cry,  Isora  sprang  from  the  bed,  flung  herself  before  the  lifted 
blade  of  the  robber,  and  arrested  his  arm.  This  man  had,  in 
the  whole  contest,  acted  with  a  singular  forbearance, — he  did  so 
now  ;  he  paused  for  a  moment  and  dropped  his  hand.  Hither- 
to the  other  man  had  not  stirred  from  his  mute  position  ;   he 


204  DEVEREUX. 

now  moved  one  step  towards  us,  brandishing  a  poniard  like  his 
comrade's.  Isora  raised  her  hand  supplicatingly  towards  him, 
and  cried  out,  "  Spare  him,  spare  him  !  Oh,  mercy,  mercy  !  ' 
With  one  stride  the  murderer  was  by  my  side  ;  he  muttered  some 
words  which  passion  seemed  to  render  inarticulate  ;  and,  half 
pushing  aside  his  comrade,  his  raised  weapon  flashed  before 
my  eyes,  now  dim  and  reeling.  I  made  a  vain  effort  to  rise — 
the  blade  descended — Isora,  unable  to  arrest  it,  threw  herself 
before  it — her  blood,  her  heart's  blood  gushed  over  me — I  saw 
and  felt  no  more. 

When  I  recovered  my  senses,  my  servants  were  round  me ; 
a  deep  red,  wet  stain  upon  the  sofa  on  which  I  was  laid  brought 
the  whole  scene  I  had  witnessed  again  before  me — terrible  and 
distinct.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  asked  for  Isora;  a  low  mur- 
mur caught  my  ear — I  turned,  and  beheld  a  dark  form  stretched 
on  the  bed,  and  surrounded,  like  myself,  by  gazers  and  menials; 
I  tottered  towards  that  bed — my  bridal  bed — with  a  fierce 
gesture  motioned  the  crowd  away — I  heard  my  name  breathed 
audibl)' — the  next  moment  I  was  by  Isora's  side.  All  pain,  all 
weakness,  all  consciousness  of  my  wound,  of  my  very  self, 
were  gone — life  seemed  curdled  into  a  single  agonizing  and 
fearful  thought.  I  fixed  my  eye  upon  hers  ;  and  though  there 
the  film  was  gathering  dark  and  rapidly,  I  saw  yet  visible  and 
imconquered  the  deep  love  of  that  faithful  and  warm  heart 
which  had  lavished  its  life  for  mine. 

I  threw  my  arms  around  her — I  pressed  my  lips  wildly  to 
hers.  "  Speak — speak  !  "  I  cried,  and  my  blood  gushed  over 
her  with  the  effort  ;  "  in  mercy  speak  ?  " 

Even  in  death  and  agony,  the  gentle  being  who  had  been  as 
wax  unto  my  lightest  wish  struggled  to  obey  me.  "  Do  not 
grieve  for  me,"  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  and  broken  voice  ;  "  it 
is  dearer  to  die  for  you  than  to  live  !  " 

Those  were  her  last  words.  I  felt  her  breath  abruptly  cease. 
The  heart,  pressed  to  mine,  was  still  !  I  started  up  in  dismay — 
the  light  shone  full  upon  her  face.  O  God  !  that  I  should  live 
to  write  that  Isora  was — no  more  ! 


DEVEREUX  205 


BOOK  IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  Re-entrance  into  Life  through  the  Ebon  Gate. — Afflictioo. 

Months  passed  away  before  my  senses  returned  to  me.  I 
rose  from  the  bed  of  suffering  and  of  madness,  calm,  collected, 
immovable — altered,  but  tranquil.  All  the  vigilance  of  jus- 
tice had  been  employed  to  discover  the  murderers,  but  in  vain. 
The  packet  was  gone  ;  and  directly  I,  who  alone  was  able  to 
do  so,  recovered  enough  to  state  the  loss  of  that  document, 
suspicion  naturally  rested  on  Gerald,  as  on  one  whom  that  loss 
essentially  benefited.  He  came  publicly  forward  to  anticipate 
inquiry.  He  proved  that  he  had  not  stirred  from  home  during 
the  whole  week  in  which  the  event  had  occurred.  That  seemed 
likely  enough  to  others;  it  is  the  tools  that  work,  not  the  insti- 
gator— the  bravo,  not  the  employer  ;  but  I,  who  saw  in  him 
not  only  the  robber,  but  that  fearful  rival  who  had  long 
threatened  Isora  that  my  bridals  should  be  stained  with  blood, 
was  somewhat  staggered  by  the  undeniable  proofs  of  his  absence 
from  the  scene  of  that  night  ;  and  I  was  still  more  bewildered 
in  conjecture  by  remembering  that,  so  far  as  their  disguises 
and  my  own  hurried  and  confused  observation  could  allow  me 
to  judge,  the  person  of  neither  villain,  still  less  that  of  Isora's 
murderer,  corresponded  with  the  proportions  and  height  of 
Gerald.  Still,  however,  whether  mediately  or  immediately — 
whether  as  the  executor  or  the  designer — not  a  doubt  remained 
on  my  mind  that  against  his  head  was  justice  due.  I  directed 
inquiry  towards  Montreuil — he  was  abroad  at  the  time  of  my 
recovery  ;  but,  immediately  on  his  return,  he  came  forward 
boldly  and  at  once  to  meet  and  even  to  court  the  inquiry  I  had 
instituted ;  he  did  more — he  demanded  on  what  ground, 
besides  my  own  word,  it  rested  that  this  packet  had  ever  been 
in  my  possession  ;  and  to  my  surprise  and  perplexity,  it  was 
utterly  impossible  to  produce  the  smallest  trace  of  Mr.  Marie 
Oswald.  His  half-brother,  the  attorney,  had  died,  it  is  true, 
just  before  the  event  of  that  night ;  and  it  was  also  true  that  he 
had  seen  Marie  on  his  death-bed  ;  but  no  other  corroboration 
of  my  story  could  be  substantiated,  and  no  other  information 
gf  the  man  pbtained  ;  and  the  partisans  of  Gerald  were  not 


2o6  DEVEREUX. 

slow  in  hinting  at  the  great  interest  I  had  in  forging  a  tale  res- 
pecting a  will,  about  the  authenticity  of  which  I  was  at  law. 

The  robbers  had  entered  the  house  by  a  back-door,  which 
was  found  open.  No  one  had  perceived  their  entrance  or  exit, 
except  Desmarais,  who  stated  that  he  heard  a  cry — that  he, 
having  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  night  abroad,  had  not  been 
in  bed  above  an  hour  before  he  heard  it — that  he  rose  and 
hurried  towards  my  room,  whence  tlie  cry  came — that  he  met 
two  men  masked  on  the  stairs — that  he  seized  one,  who  struck 
him  in  the  breast  with  a  poniard,  dashed  him  to  the  ground, 
and  escaped — that  he  then  immediately  alarmed  the  house,  and, 
the  servants  accompanying  him,  he  proceeded,  despite  his 
wound,  to  my  apartment,  where  he  found  Isora  and  myself 
bleeding  and  lifeless,  with  the  escritoire  broken  open. 

The  only  contradiction  to  this  tale  was,  that  the  officers  of 
justice  found  the  escritoire  not  broken  open,  but  unlocked  ; 
and  yet  the  key  which  belonged  to  it  was  found  in  a  pocket- 
book  in  my  clothes,  where  Desmarais  said,  rightly,  I  always 
kept  it.  How,  then,  had  the  escritoire  been  unlocked?  it  was 
supposed  by  the  master-keys  peculiar  to  experienced  burglars ; 
this  diverted  suspicion  into  a  new  channel,  and  it  was  suggested 
that  the  robbery  and  the  murder  had  really  been  committed  by 
common  house-breakers.  It  was  then  discovered  that  a  large 
purse  of  gold,  and  a  diamond  cross,  which  the  escritoire  con- 
tained, were  gone.  And  a  few  articles  of  ornamental  bijouterie, 
which  I  had  retained  from  the  wreck  of  my  former  profusion 
in  such  baubles,  and  which  were  kept  in  a  room  below  stairs, 
were  also  missing.  These  circumstances  immediately  con- 
firmed the  opinion  of  those  who  threw  the  guilt  upon  vulgar 
and  mercenary  villains,  and  a  very  probable  and  plausible 
supposition  was  built  on  this  hypothesis.  Might  not  this 
Oswald,  at  best  an  adventurer  with  an  indifferent  reputa- 
tion, have  forged  this  story  of  the  packet  in  order  to  ob- 
tain admission  into  the  house,  and  reconnoitre,  during  the 
confusion  of  a  wedding,  in  what  places  the  most  portable 
articles  of  value  were  stowed  ?  a  thousand  opportunities,  in 
the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  house-doors,  would  have 
allowed  an  ingenious  villain  to  glide  in  ;  nay,  he  might  have 
secreted  himself  in  my  own  room,  and  seen  the  place  where  I 
had  put  the  packet — certain  would  he  then  be  that  I  had 
selected  for  the  repository  of  a  document  I  believed  so  impor- 
tant, that  place  where  all  that  I  most  valued  was  secured  ;  and 
hence  he  would  naturally  resolve  to  break  open  the  escritoire, 
above  all  other  places,  which,  to  an  uninformed  robber,  might 


have  seemed  not  only  less  exposed  to  danger,  but  equally  likely 
to  contain  articles  of  value.  The  same  confusion  which 
enabled  him  to  enter  and  conceal  himself  would  have  also 
enabled  him  to  withdraw  and  introduce  his  accomplice.  This 
notion  was  rendered  probable  by  his  insisting  so  strongly  on 
my  not  opening  the  packet  within  a  certain  time  ;  had  I  opened 
it  immediately,  I  might  have  perceived  that  a  deceit  had  been 
practised,  and  not  have  hoarded  it  in  that  place  of  security 
which  it  was  the  villain's  object  to  discover.  Hence,  too,  in 
opening  the  escritoire,  he  would  naturally  retake  the  packet 
(which  other  plunderers  might  not  have  cared  to  steal),  as  well 
as  things  of  more  real  price — naturally  retake  it,  in  order  that 
his  previous  imposition  might  not  be  detected,  and  that  sus- 
picion might  be  cast  upon  those  who  would  appear  to  have  an 
interest  in  stealing  a  packet  which  I  believed  to  be  so  inestimably 
important. 

What  gave  a  still  greater  color  to  this  supposition  was  the 
fact  that  none  of  the  servants  had  seen  Oswald  leave  the  house, 
though  many  had  seen  him  enter.  And  what  put  his  guilt  beyond 
a  doubt  in  the  opinion  of  many,  was  his  sudden  and  mysterious 
disappearance.  To  my  mind,  all  those  circumstances  were  not 
conclusive.  Both  the  men  seemed  taller  than  Oswald ;  and  I 
knew  that  that  confusion,  which  was  so  much  insisted  upon,  had 
not — thanks  to  my  singular  fastidiousness  in  those  matters — 
existed.  I  was  also  perfectly  convinced  that  Oswald  could  not 
have  been  hid  in  my  room  while  I  locked  up  the  packet ;  and 
there  was  something  in  the  behavior  of  the  murderer  utterly 
unlike  that  of  a  common  robber,  actuated  by  common  motives. 

All  these  opposing  arguments  were,  however,  of  a  nature  to 
be  deemed  nugatory  by  the  world,  and  on  the  only  one  of  any 
importance,  in  their  estimation,  viz.,  the  height  of  Oswald  being 
different  from  that  of  the  robbers,  it  was  certainly  very  probable 
that,  in  a  scene  so  dreadful,  so  brief,  so  confused,  I  should 
easily  be  mistaken.  Having  therefore  once  flowed  into  this 
direction,  public  opinion  soon  settled  into  the  full  conviction 
that  Oswald  was  the  real  criminal,  and  against  Oswald  was  the 
whole  strength  of  inquiry  ultimately,  but  still  vainly,  bent. 
Some  few,  it  is  true,  of  that  kind  class  who  love  family  mys- 
teries, and  will  not  easily  forego  the  notion  of  a  brother's  guilt, 
for  that  of  a  mere  vulgar  house-breaker,  still  shook  their  heads, 
and  talked  of  Gerald  ;  but  the  suspicion  was  vague  and  partial, 
and  it  was  only  in  the  close  gossip  of  private  circles  that  it 
was  audibly  vented. 

I  had  formed  an  opinion  by  no  means  favorable  to  the  inno- 


2o8  DEVEREUJt. 

cence  of  Mr.  Jean  Desmarais  ;  and  I  took  especial  care  that 
the  Necessitarian,  who  would  only  have  thought  robbery  and 
murder  pieces  of  ill-luck,  should  undergo  a  most  rigorous  ex- 
amination. I  remembered  that  he  had  seen  me  put  the  packet 
into  the  escritoire  ;  and  this  circumstance  was  alone  sufficient 
to  arouse  my  suspicion.  Desmarais  bared  his  breast  gracefully 
to  the  magistrate.  "Would  a  man,  sir,"  he  said,  "a  man  of  my 
youth,  suffer  such  a  scar  as  that,  if  he  could  help  it  ? "  The 
magistrate  laughed  :  frivolity  is  often  a  rogue's  best  policy,  if 
he  did  but  know  it.  One  finds  it  very  difficult  to  think  a  cox- 
comb can  commit  robbery  and  murder.  Howbeit  Desmarais 
came  off  triumphantly  :  and,  immediately  after  this  examina- 
tion, which  had  been  his  second  one,  and  instigated  solely  at 
my  desire,  he  came  to  me  with  a  blush  of  virtuous  indignation 
on  his  thin  cheeks.  "  He  did  not  presume,"  he  said,  with  a 
bow  profounder  than  ever,  "  to  find  fault  with  Monsieur  le 
Comte  ;  it  was  his  fate  to  be  the  victim  of  ungrateful  suspicion  ; 
but  philosophical  truths  could  not  always  conquer  the  feelings 
of  the  man,  and  he  came  to  request  his  dismissal."  I  gave  it 
him  with  pleasure. 

I  must  now  state  my  own  feelings  on  the  matter  :  but  I  shall 
do  so  briefly.  In  my  own  mind,  I  repeat,  I  was  fully  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  Gerald  was  the  real,  and  the  head 
criminal ;  and  thrice  did  I  resolve  to  repair  to  Devereux 
Court,  where  he  still  resided,  to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  to  reproach 
him  with  his  guilt,  and  at  the  sword's  point  in  deadly  combat 
to  seek  its  earthly  expiation.  I  spare  the  reader  a  narration  of 
the  terrible  struggles  which  nature,  conscience,  all  scruples 
and  prepossessions  of  education  and  of  blood,  held  with  this 
resolution,  the  unholiness  of  which  I  endeavored  to  clothe  with 
the  name  of  justice  to  Isora.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  resolu- 
tion I  forewent  at  last  :  and  I  did  so  more  from  a  feeling  that, 
despite  my  own  conviction  of  Gerald's  guilt,  one  rational  doubt 
rested  upon  the  circumstance  that  the  murderer  seemed  to  my 
eyes  of  an  inferior  height  to  Gerald,  and  that  the  person  whom 
I  had  pursued  on  the  night  I  had  received  that  wound  wliich 
brought  Isora  to  my  bed-side,  and  who,  it  was  natural  to  be- 
lieve, was  my  rival,  appeared  to  me  not  only  also  slighter  and 
shorter  than  Gerald,  but  of  a  size  that. seemed  to  tally  with  the 
murderer's. 

This  solitary  circ  urn  stance,  which  contradicted  my  other 
impressions,  was,  I  say,  more  effectual  in  making  me  dismiss 
the  thought  of  personal  revenge  on  Gerald,  than  the  motives 
which  virtue  and  religion  should  have  dictated.     The  deep 


t)£VEREt))C.  iO0 

desire  of  vengeance  is  the  calmest  of  all  the  passions,  and  it  is 
the  one  which  most  demands  certainty  to  the  reason,  before  it 
releases  its  emotions,  and  obeys  their  dictates.  The  blow  which 
was  to  do  justice  to  Isora,  I  had  resolved  should  not  be  dealt, 
till  I  had  obtained  the  most  utter  certainty  that  it  fell  upon  the 
true  criminal.  And  thus,  though  I  cherished  through  all  time, 
and  through  all  change,  the  burning  wish  for  retribution,  I  was 
doomed  to  cherish  it  in  secret,  and  not  for  years  and  years  to 
behold  a  hope  of  attaining  it.  Once  only  I  vented  my  feelings 
upon  Gerald.  I  could  not  rest,  or  sleep,  or  execute  the  world's 
objects,  till  I  had  done  so  ;  but  when  they  were  thus  once 
vented  methought  I  could  wait  the  will  of  time  with  a  more 
settled  patience,  and  I  re-entered  upon  the  common  career  of 
life  more  externally  fitted  to  fulfil  its  duties  and  its  aims. 

That  single  indulgence  of  emotion  followed  immediately 
after  my  resolution  of  not  forcing  Gerald  into  bodily  contest. 
I  left  my  sword,  lest  I  might  be  tempted  to  forget  my  deter- 
mination. I  rode  to  Devereux  Court — I  entered  Gerald's  cham- 
ber, while  my  horse  stood  unstalled  at  the  gate.  I  said  but  few 
words,  but  each  word  was  a  volume.  I  told  him  to  enjoy  the 
fortune  he  had  acquired  by  fraud,  and  the  conscience  he  had 
stained  with  murder.  "  Enjoy  them  while  you  may,"  I  said, 
"but  know  that  sooner  or  later  shall  come  a  day,  when  the  blood 
that  cries  from  earth  shall  be  heard  in  Heaven — and  jour  blood 
shall  appease  it.  Know,  if  I  seem  to  disobey  the  voice  at  my 
heart,  I  hear  it  night  and  day — and  I  only  live  to  fulfil  at  one 
time  its  commands." 

I  left  him  stunned  and  horror-stricken.  I  flung  myself  on 
my  horse,  and  cast  not  a  look  behind  as  I  rode  from  the  towers 
and  domains  of  which  I  had  been  despoiled.  Never  from  that 
time  would  I  trust  myself  to  meet  or  see  the  despoiler.  Once, 
directly  after  I  had  thus  braved  him  in  his  usurped  hall,  he 
wrote  to  me.  I  returned  the  letter  unopened.  Enough  of  this  ; 
the  reader  will  now  perceive  what  was  the  real  nature  of  my 
feelings  of  revenge ;  and  will  appreciate  the  reasons  which, 
throughout  this  history,  will  cause  me  never  or  rarely  to  recur 
to  those  feelings  again,  until  at  least  he  will  perceive  a  just  hope 
of  their  consummation. 

I  went  with  a  quiet  air  and  a  set  brow  into  the  world.  It 
was  a  time  of  great  political  excitement.  Though  my  creed 
forbade  me  the  open  senate,  it  could  not  deprive  me  of  the 
veiled  intrigue.  St.  John  found  ample  employment  for  my 
ambition,  and  I  entered  into  the  toils  and  objects  of  my  race 
with  a  seeming  avidity,  more  eager  and  engrossing  than  their 


aid  DEVEREUX, 

own.  In  what  ensues,  you  will  perceive  a  great  change  in  the 
character  of  my  memoirs.  Hitherto,  I  chiefly  portrayed  to  you 
myself.  I  bared  open  to  you  my  heart  and  temper — my  pas- 
sions, and  the  thoughts  which  belong  to  our  passions.  I  shall 
now  rather  bring  before  you  the  natures  and  the  minds  of  others. 
The  lover  and  the  dreamer  are  no  more  !  The  satirist  and  the 
observer — the  derider  of  human  follies,  participating  while  he 
derides — the  worldly  and  keen  actor  in  the  human  drama, — 
these  are  what  the  district  of  my  history  on  which  you  enter 
will  portray  me.  From  whatever  pangs  to  me  the  change  may 
have  been  wrought,  you  will  be  the  gainer  by  that  change.  The 
gaudy  dissipation  of  courts  ;  the  vicissitudes  and  the  vanities 
of  those  who  haunt  them  ;  the  glittering  jest,  and  the  light 
strain  ;  the  passing  irony,  or  the  close  reflection  ;  the  charac- 
ters of  the  great  ;  the  colloquies  of  wit ;  these  are  what  delight 
the  temper  and  amuse  the  leisure  more  than  the  solemn  narra- 
tive of  fated  love.  As  the  monster  of  the  Nile  is  found  beneath 
the  sunniest  banks,  and  in  the  most  freshening  wave,  the  stream 
may  seem  to  wander  on  in  melody  and  mirth — the  ripple  and 
the  beam  ;  but  who  shall  tell  what  lurks,  dark,  and  fearful,  and 
ever  vigilant,  below ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

Ambitious  Projects. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  write  a  political  history,  instead  of 
a  private  biography.  No  doubt,  in  the  next  century,  there  will 
be  volumes  enough  written  in  celebration  of  that  era  which  my 
contemporaries  are  pleased  to  term  the  greatest  that  in  modern 
times  has  ever  existed.  Besides,  in  the  private  and  more  concealed 
intrigues  with  which  I  was  engaged  with  St.  John,  there  was 
something  which  regard  for  others  would  compel  me  to  preserve 
in  silence.  I  shall  therefore  briefly  state  that,  in  1712,  St.  John 
dignified  the  peerage  by  that  title  which  his  exile  and  his  genius 
have  rendered  so  illustrious. 

I  was  with  him  on  the  day  this  honor  was  publicly  announced. 
I  found  him  walking  to  and  fro  in  his  room,  with  his  arms  folded, 
and  with  a  very  peculiar  compression  of  his  nether  lip,  which 
was  a  custom  he  had  when  anything  greatly  irritated  or  dis- 
turbed him. 

"Well,"  said  he,  stopping  abruptly  as  he  saw  me,  "well,  con- 
sidering the  peacock  Harley  brought  so.  bright  a  plume  to  his 


fitVEREUJt.  ilt 

own  nest,  we  must  admire  the  generosity  which  spared  this  gay- 
dunghill  feather  to  mine  !" 

"  How  !"  said  I,  though  I  knew  the  cause  of  his  angry  meta- 
phor. St.  John  used  metaphors  in  speech  scarcely  less  than 
in  writing. 

"  How  !  "  cried  the  new  peer,  eagerly,  and  with  one  of  those 
flashing  looks  which  made  his  expression  of  indignation  the  most 
powerful  I  ever  saw.  "  How  !  Was  the  sacred  promise  granted 
to  me  of  my  own  collateral  earldom,  to  be  violated  ;  and  while 
the  weight — the  toil — the  difficulty — the  odium,  of  affairs,  from 
which  Harley,  the  despotic  dullard,  shrunk  alike  in  imbecility 
and  fear,  had  been  left  exclusively  to  my  share,  an  insult  in  the 
shape  of  an  honor,  to  be  left  exclusively  to  my  reward  ?  You 
know  my  disposition  is  not  to  over-rate  the  mere  baubles  of  am- 
bition— you  know  I  care  little  for  titles  and  for  orders  in  them- 
selves ;  but  the  most  worthless  thing  becomes  of  consequence, 
if  made  a  symbol  of  what  is  of  value,  or  designed  as  the  token 
of  an  affront.  Listen  :  a  collateral  earldom  falls  vacant — it  is 
partly  promised  me.  Suddenly  I  am  dragged  from  the  House 
of  Commons  where  I  am  all  powerful ;  I  am  given — not  this 
earldom,  which,  as  belonging  to  my  house,  would  alone  have 
induced  me  to  consent  to  a  removal  from  a  sphere  where  my 
enemies  allow  1  had  greater  influence  than  any  single  commoner 
in  the  kingdom — I  am  given,  not  this,  but  a  miserable  compro- 
mise of  distinction — a  new  and  an  inferior  rank — given  it  against 
my  will — thrust  into  the  Upper  House,  to  defend  what  tliis 
pompous  driveller,  Oxford,  is  forced  to  forsake ;  and  not  only 
exposed  to  all  the  obloquy  of  a  most  infuriate  party,  opposed  to 
me,  but  mortified  by  an  intentional  affront  from  the  party 
which,  heart  and  soul,  I  have  supported.  You  know  that  my 
birth  is  to  the  full  as  noble  as  Harley's — you  know  that  my  in- 
fluence in  the  Lower  House  is  far  greater — you  know  that  my 
name  in  the  country,  nay,  throughout  Europe,  is  far  more  pop- 
ular— you  know  that  the  labor  allotted  to  me  has  been  far  more 
weighty — you  know  that  the  late  Peace  of  Utrecht  is  entirely 
tny  framing — that  the  foes  to  the  measure  direct  all  their  venom 
against  me — that  the  friends  of  the  measure  heap  upon  me  all 
the  honor  : — when,  therefore,  this  exact  time  is  chosen  for  break- 
ing a  promise  formerly  made  to  me — when  a  pretended  honor, 
known  to  be  most  unpalatable  to  me,  is  thrust  upon  me — when, 
at  this  very  time,  too,  six  vacant  ribbons  of  the  garter  flaunt 
me — one  resting  on  the  knee  of  this  Harley,  who  was  able  to 
obtain  an  earldom  for  himself — the  others  given  to  men  of  far 
inferior  pretensions,  though  not  inferior  rank,  to  my  own — my- 


2IS  DEVEREliX. 

self  markedly,  glaringly  passed  by, — how  can  I  avoid  feeling  that 
things,  despicable  in  themselves,  are  become  of  a  vital  power, 
from  the  evident  intention  that  they  should  be  insults  to  me  ! 
the  insects  we  despise  as  they  buzz  around  us  become  danger- 
ous when  they  settle  on  ourselves  and  we  feel  their  sting  !  But," 
added  Bolingbroke,  suddenly  relapsing  into  a  smile,  "  I  have 
long  wanted  a  nickname,  I  have  now  found  one  for  myself.  You 
know  Oxford  is  called  'The  Dragon';  well,  henceforth  call  me 
'  St.  George  ';  for,  as  sure  as  I  live,  will  I  overthrow  the  Dragon. 
I  say  this  in  jest,  but  I  mean  it  in  earnest.  And  now  that  I  have 
discharged  my  bile,  let  us  talk  of  this  wonderful  poem,  which, 
though  I  have  read  it  a  hundred  times,  I  am  never  wearied  of 
admiring." 

"Ah — the  Rape  of  the  Lock  !  It  is  indeed  beautiful,  but  I 
am  not  fond  of  poetry  now.  By  the  way,  how  is  it  that  all  our 
modern  poets  speak  to  the  taste,  the  mind,  the  judgment,  and 
never  to  \.\\q  feelings  ?     Are  they  right  in  doing  so?" 

"  My  friend,  we  are  now  in  a  polished  age.  What  have  feel- 
ings to  do  with  civilization  .?" 

"  Why,  more  than  you  will  allow.  Perhaps  the  greater  our 
civilization,  the  more  numerous  our  feelings.  Our  animal  pas- 
sions lose  in  excess,  but  our  mental  gain  ;  and  it  is  to  the  mental 
that  poetry  should  speak.  Our  English  muse,  even  in  this 
wonderful  poem,  seems  to  me  to  be  growing,  like  our  English 
beauties,  too  glitteringly  artificial — it  wears  rouge  and  a  hoop." 

*'  Ha  !  ha  ! — yes,  they  ornament  now,  rather  than  create — cut 
drapery,  rather  than  marble.  Our  poems  remind  me  of  the  an- 
cient statues.  Phidias  made  them,  and  Bubo  and  Bombax 
dressed  them  in  purple.  But  this  does  not  apply  to  young 
Pope,  who  has  shown  in  this  very  poem  that  he  can  work  the 
quarry  as  well  as  choose  the  gems.  But  see,  tlie  carriage  awaits  us. 
I  have  worlds  to  do, — first  tliere  is  Swift  to  see — next,  there  is 
some  exquisite  Burgundy  to  taste — then,  too,  there  is  the  new 
actress;  and,  by  the  by,  you  must  tell  me  what  you  think  of  Bent- 
ley's  Horace  :  we  will  drive  first  to  my  bookseller's  to  see  it — 
Swift  shall  wait — Heavens  !  how  he  would  rage  if  he  heard 
me.  I  was  going  to  say  what  a  pity  it  is  that  that  man  should 
have  so  much  littleness  of  vanity  ;  but  I  should  have  uttered  a 
very  foolish  sentiment  if  I  had  !  " 

"And  why?" 

"Because,  if  he  had  not  so  much  littleness  perhaps  he  would 
not  be  so  great :  what,  but  vanity,  makes  a  man  write  and  speak 
and  slave,  and  become  famous  ?  Alas  !  "  and  here  St.  John's 
countenance  changed  from  gaiety  to  thouglit ;   "  'tis  a  melan- 


bfiVEREUX.  iij 

choly  thing  in  liuman  nature  that  so  little  is  good  and  noble, 
both  in  itself  and  in  its  source  !  Our  very  worst  passions  wili 
often  produce  sublimer  effects  than  our  best.  Phidias  (we  will 
apply  to  him  for  another  illustration,)  made  the  wonderful  statue 
of  Minerva  for  his  country  ;  but,  in  order  to  avenge  himself  on 
that  country,  he  eclipsed  it  in  the  far  more  wonderful  statue  of 
the  Jupiter  Olympius.  Thus,  from  a  vicious  feeling  emanated 
a  greater  glory  than  from  an  exalted  principle  ;  and  the  artist 
was  less  celebrated  for  the  monument  of  his  patriotism  than  for 
that  of  his  revenge  !  But  allons,  mon  cher,  we  grow  wise  and 
dull.  Let  us  go  to  choose  our  Burgundy  and  our  comrades  to 
share  it." 

However,  with  his  characteristic  affectation  of  bounding  am- 
bition, and  consequently  hope,  to  no  one  object  in  particular, 
and  of  mingling  affairs  of  light  importance  with  those  of  the 
most  weighty,  Lord  Bolingbroke  might  pretend  not  to  recur  to, 
or  to  dwell  upon,  his  causes  of  resentment — from  that  time  they 
never  ceased  to  influence  him  to  a  great,  and  for  a  statesman  an 
unpardonable,  degree.  We  cannot,  however,  blame  politicians 
for  their  hatred,  until,  without  hating  anybody,  we  have  for  a 
long  time  been  politicians  ourselves  ;  strong  minds  have  strong 
passions,  and  men  of  strong  passions  must  hate  as  well  as  love. 

The  two  years  passed,  on  my  part,  in  perpetual  intrigues  of 
diplomacy,  combined  with  an  unceasing,  though  secret,  en- 
deavour to  penetrate  the  mystery  which  hung  over  the  events 
of  that  dreadful  night.  All,  however,  was  in  vain.  I  know  not 
what  the  English  police  may  be  hereafter,  but  in  my  time  its 
officers  seem  to  be  chosen,  like  honest  Dogberry's  companions, 
among  "the  most  senseless  and  fit  men."  They  are,  however, 
to  the  full,  as  much  knaves  as  fools ;  and  perhaps  a  wiser  pos- 
terity will  scarcely  believe  that,  when  things  of  the  greatest  value 
are  stolen,  the  owners,  on  applying  to  the  chief  magistrate,  will 
often  be  told  that  no  redress  can  be  given  there,  while  one  of 
the  officers  will  engage  to  get  back  the  goods,  upon  paying  the 
thieves  a  certain  sum  in  exchange — if  this  is  refused — your  ef- 
fects are  gone  forever  !     A  pretty  state  of  internal  government. 

It  was  about  a  year  after  the  murder  that  my  mother  informed 
me  of  an  event  which  tore  from  my  heart  its  last  private  tie,  viz., 
the  death  of  Aubrey.  The  last  letter  I  had  received  from  him 
has  been  placed  before  the  reader ;  it  was  written  at  Devereux 
Court,  just  before  he  left  it  forever.  Montreuil  had  been  with 
him  during  the  illness  which  proved  fatal,  and  which  occurred 
in  Ireland.  He  died  of  consumption  ;  and  when  1  heard  from 
my  mother  that  Montreuil  dwelt  most  glowingly  upon  the  dc« 


ii4  DEVEREUX. 

votion  he  had  manifested  during  the  last  months  of  his  life,  I 
could  not  help  fearing  tliat  the  morbidity  of  his  superstition  had 
done  the  work  of  physical  disease.  On  this  fatal  news,  ray 
mother  retired  from  Devereux  Court  to  a  company  of  ladies  of 
our  faith,  who  resided  together,  and  practised  the  most  ascetic 
rules  of  a  nunnery,  though  they  gave  not  to  their  house  that  ec- 
clesiastical name.  My  mother  had  long  meditated  this  project, 
and  it  was  now  a  melancholy  pleasure  to  put  it  into  execution. 
From  that  period  I  rarely  heard  from  her,  and  by  little  and 
little  she  so  shrunk  from  all  worldly  objects  that  my  visits,  and 
I  believe  even  those  of  Gerald,  became  unwelcome  and  dis- 
tasteful. 

As  to  my  lawsuit,  it  went  on  gloriously,  according  to  the  as- 
sertions of  my  brisk  little  lawyer,  who  had  declared  so  emphat- 
ically that  he  liked  making  quick  work  of  a  suit.  And,  at  last, 
what  with  bribery  and  feeing,  and  pushing,  a  day  was  fixed  for 
the  final  adjustment  of  my  claim — it  came — the  cause  was  heard 
and  lost.  I  should  have  been  ruined,  but  for  one  circumstance; 
the  old  lady,  my  father's  godmother,  who  had  witnessed  my  first 
and  concealed  marriage,  left  me  a  pretty  estate  near  Epsom.  I 
turned  it  into  gold,  and  it  was  fortunate  that  I  did  so  soon,  as 
the  reader  is  about  to  see. 

The  Queen  died — and  a  cloud  already  began  to  look  menac- 
ing to  the  eyes  of  the  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  and  therefore  to 
those  of  the  Count  Devereux.  "We  will  weather  out  the 
shower,"  said  Bolingbroke. 

"  Could  not  you,"  said  I,  "  make  our  friend  Oxford  the  Tala- 
pat?"*  and  Bolingbroke  laughed.  All  men  find  wit  in  the  jests 
broken  on  their  enemies  ! 

One  morning,  however,  I  received  a  laconic  note  from  him, 
which,  notwithstanding  its  shortness  and  seeming  gayety,  I  knew 
well  signified  that  something,  not  calculated  for  laughter,  had 
occurred.  I  went,  and  found  that  his  new  majesty  had  deprived 
him  of  the  seals  and  secured  his  papers.  We  looked  very  blank 
at  each  other.  At  last,  Bolingbroke  smiled.  I  must  say  that, 
culpable  as  he  was  in  some  points  as  a  politician — culpable,  not 
from  being  ambitious  (for  I  would  not  give  much  for  the  states- 
man who  is  otherwise),  but  from  not  having  inseparably  linked 
his  ambition  to  the  welfare  of  his  country,  rather  than  to  that 
of  a  party — for,  despite  of  wliat  has  been  said  of  him,  his  am- 
bition was  never  selfish — culpable  as  he  was  when  glory  allured 

♦A  thing  used  by  the  Siamese  for  the  same  purpose  as  we  now  use  the  umhrelfa.  A 
work  descriptive  of  Siam  by  M.  de  la  Loiibere,  in  which  the  Talapat  is  somewhat  minutely 
<iescribed,  having  been  translated  into  English,  and.  having  excited  some  curiosity,  a  few 
years  before  Count  Devereux  now  uses  the  word,  the  allusion  was  probably  familiar.— Ed, 


DEVEREUX.  215 

him,  he  was  most  admirable  when  danger  assailed  him  !  *  and, 
by  the  shade  of  that  TuUy  whom  he  so  idolized,  his  philosophy 
was  the  most  conveniently  worn  of  any  person's  I  ever  met. 
When  it  would  have  been  in  the  way — at  the  supper  of  an  act- 
tress  — in  the  levees  of  a  court — in  the  boudoir  of  a  beauty — in 
the  arena  of  a  senate — in  the  intrigue  of  the  cabinet,  you  would 
not  have  observed  a  seam  of  the  good  old  garment.  But  di- 
rectly it  was  wanted — in  the  hour  of  pain — in  the  day  of  peril — 
in  the  suspense  of  exile — in  (worst  of  al!)  the  torpor  of  tran- 
quility, my  extraordinary  friend  unfolded  it  piece  by  piece — 
wrapped  himself  up  in  it — sat  down — defied  the  world,  and  ut- 
tered the  most  beautiful  sentiments  upon  the  comfort  and  lux- 
ury of  his  raiment,  that  can  possibly  be  imagined.  It  used  to 
remind  me,  that  same  philosophy  of  his,  of  the  enchanted  tent 
in  the  Arabian  Tale,  which  one  moment  lay  wrapped  in  a  nut- 
shell, and  the  next  covered  an  army. 

Bolingbroke  smiled,  and  quoted  Cicero,  and  after  an  hour's 
conversation,  which  on  his  part  was  by  no  means  like  that  of  a 
person  whose  very  head  was  in  no  enviable  state  of  safety,  he 
slid  at  once  from  a  sarcasm  upon  Steele  into  a  discussion  as  to 
the  best  measures  to  be  adopted.  Let  me  be  brief  on  this 
point  !  Throughout  the  whole  of  that  short  session,  he  behaved 
in  a  manner  more  delicately  and  profoundly  wise  than,  I  think, 
the  whole  of  his  previous  administration  can  equal.  He  sus- 
tained with  the  most  unflagging,  the  most  unwearied,  dexterity, 
the  sinking  spirits  of  his  associates.  Without  an  act,  or  the 
shadow  of  an  act,  that  could  be  called  time-serving,  he  laid 
himself  out  to  conciliate  the  King,  and  to  propitiate  Parliament; 
with  a  dignified  prudence  which,  while  it  seemed  above  petty 

*  I  know  well  that  it  has  been  said  otherwise,  and  that  Bolingbroke  has  been  accused  of 
timidity  for  not  staying  in  England,  and  making  Mr.  Robert  Walpole  a  present  of  his  head. 
The  elegant  author  of  "  De  Vere,"  has  fallen  into  a  very  great,  though  a  very  hackneyed  er- 
ror, in  lauding  Oxford's  political  character,  and  condemning  Bolingbroke's,  because  the  for- 
mer awaited  a  trial  and  the  latter  shunned  it.  A  very  little  reflection  might,  perhaps,  have 
taught  th«  accomplished  novelist  that  there  could  be  no  comparison  between  the  two  cases, 
because  there  was  no  comparison  between  the  relative  danger  of  Oxford  and  Bolingbroke. 
Oxford,  as  their  subsequent  impeachment  proved,  was  far  more  numerously  and  power, 
fully  supported  than  his  illustrious  enemy  ;  and  there  is  really  no  earthly  cause  for  doubt- 
ing the  truth  of  Bolingbroke's  assertion,  viz.,  that  "  He  had  received  repeated  and  certain 
information  that  a  resolution  was  taken,  by  those  who  had  power  to  execute  it,  to  pursue 
him  to  the  scaffold."  There  are  certain  situations  in  which  a  brave  and  a  good  man  should 
willingly  surrender  life  ;  but  I  humbly  opine  that  there  may  sometimes  exist  a  situation  in 
which  he  should  preserve  it :  and  if  ever  man  was  placed  in  that  latter  situation,  it  was  Lord 
Bolingbroke.  To  choose  unnecessarily  to  put  one's  head  under  the  axe,  without  benefiting 
any  but  one's  enemies  by  the  act,  is,  in  my  eyes,  the  proof  of  a  fool,  not  a  hero  ;  and  to  at- 
tack a  man  for  not  placing  his  head  in  that  agreeable  and  most  useful  predicament — for  pre- 
ferring, in  short,  to  live  for  a  world,  rather  than  to  perish  by  a  faction,  appears  to  be  a  mode 
of  arguing  that  has  a  wonderful  resemblance  to  nonsense.  When  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  im- 
peached, two  men  only  out  of  those  numerous  retainers  in  the  Lower  House  who  had  been 
wont  so  loudly  to  applaud  the  secretary  of  state,  in  his  prosecution  of  those  very  measures 
for  which  he  was  now  to  be  condemned — two  men  only  (General  Ross  and  Mr.  Hung«rford) 
UttCKxl  a  single  syllable  in  defence  of  the  minister  di.sgraced, — EPt 


2l6  DEVEREUX. 

pique,  was  well  calculated  to  remove  the  appearance  of  that 
disaffection  with  which  he  was  charged,  and  discriminated 
justly  between  the  King  and  the  new  administration,  he  lent  his 
talents  to  the  assistance  of  the  monarch,  by  whom  his  impeach- 
ment was  already  resolved  on,  and  aided  in  the  settlement  of 
the  civil  list,  while  he  was  in  full  expectation  of  a  criminal 
accusation. 

The  new  Parliament  met,  and  all  doubt  was  over.  An  im- 
peachment of  the  late  administration  was  decided  upon.  I  was 
settling  bills  with  my  little  lawyer  one  morning,  when  Boling- 
broke  entered  my  room.  He  took  a  chair,  nodded  to  me  not 
to  dismiss  my  assistant,  joined  our  conversation,  and  when  con- 
versation was  merged  in  accounts,  he  took  up  a  book  of  songs, 
and  amused  himself  with  it  till  my  business  was  over  and  my 
disciple  of  Coke  retired.  He  then  said,  very  slowly,  and  with 
a  slight  yawn — "  You  have  never  been  at  Paris,  I  think  ?  " 

"Never— you  are  enchanted  with  that  gay  city." 

"Yes,  but  when  I  was  last  there,  the  good  people  flattered 
my  vanity  enough  to  bribe  my  taste.  I  shall  be  able  to  form  a 
more  unbiased  and  impartial  judgment  in  a  few  days." 

"  A  few  days  !  " 

"  Ay,  my  dear  Count  :  does  it  startle  you  ?  I  wonder  whether 
the  pretty  De  Tencin  will  be  as  kind  to  me  as  she  was,  and 
whether  tout  le  monde  (that  most  exquisite  phrase  for  five 
hundred  people,)  will  rise  now  at  the  Opera  on  my  entrance. 
Do  you  think  that  a  banished  minister  can  have  any,  the 
smallest,  resemblance  to  what  he  was  when  in  power  ?  By  gum- 
dragon,  as  our  friend  Swift  so  euphoniously  and  elegantly 
says,  or  swears, — by  gumdragon,  I  think  not !  What  altered 
Satan  so  after  his  fall  ?  what  gave  him  hornsand  atail  ?  nothing 
but  his  disgrace.  Oh  !  years,  and  disease,  plague,  pestilence, 
and  famine,  never  alter  a  man  so  much  as  the  loss  of  power." 

''  You  say  wisely  ;  but  what  am  I  to  gather  from  your  words  ? 
is  it  all  over  with  us  in  real  earnest?  " 

"Us  !  with  7ne  it  is  indeed  all  over — you  may  stay  here  for 
ever.  /  must  fly — a  packet  boat  to  Calais,  or  a  room  in  the 
Tower--!  must  choose  between  the  two.  I  had  some  thoughts 
of  remaining,  and  confronting  my  trial,  but  it  would  be  folly — 
there  is  a  difference  between  Oxford  and  me.  He  has  friends, 
though  out  of  power ;  I  have  none.  If  they  impeach  him — 
he  will  escape  ;  if  they  impeach  me,  they  will  either  shut  me  up 
like  a  rat  in  a  cage,  for  twenty  years,  till,  old  and  forgotten, 
I  tear  my  heart  out  with  my  confinement,  or  they  will  bring  me 
at  once  to  the  block,     No,  no — I  must  keep  myself  for  another 


DEVEREUX.  217 

day  ;  and,  while  they  banish  me,  I  will  leave  the  seeds  of  the 
true  cause  to  grow  up  till  my  return.  Wise  and  exquisite  policy 
of  my  foes — *  Frustra  Cassium  amovisti,  si  gliscere  et  vigere 
Brutorum  emulos  passurus  es.'  *  But  I  have  no  time  to  lose — 
farewell,  my  friend — God  bless  you — you  are  saved  from  these 
storms  ;  and  even  intolerance,  which  prevented  the  exercise  of 
youj  genius,  preserves  you  now  from  the  danger  of  having 
applied  that  genius  to  the  welfare  of  your  country  :  Heaven 
knows,  whatever  my  faults,  I  have  sacrificed  what  I  loved 
better  than  all  things — study  and  pleasure — to  her  cause.  In 
her  wars  I  served  even  my  enemy  Marlborough,  in  order  to 
serve  her  ;  her  peace  I  effected,  and  I  suffer  for  it.  Be  it  so, 
I  am 

'  Fidens  animi  atque  in  utrumque  paratus.'  f 
Once  more  I  embrace  you — farewell." 

**  Nay,"  said  I,  "  listen  to  me,  you  shall  not  go  alone.  France 
is  already,  in  reality,  my  native  country  ;  there  did  I  receive 
my  birth,  it  is  no  hardship  to  return  to  my  natale  solum — it  is 
an  honor  to  return  in  the  company  of  Henry  St.  John.  I  will 
have  no  refusal ;  my  law  case  is  over,  my  papers  are  few,  my 
money  I  will  manage  to  transfer.  Remember  the  anecdote  you 
told  me,  yesterday,  of  Anaxagoras,  who,  when  asked  where  his 
country  was,  pointed  with  his  finger  to  heaven.  It  is  applica- 
ble, I  hope,  as  well  to  me  as  to  yourself;  to  me,  uncelebrated 
and  obscure,  to  you,  the  senator  and  the  statesman." 

In  vain  Bolingbroke  endeavored  to  dissuade  me  from  this 
resolution  ;  he  was  the  only  friend  fate  had  left  me,  and  I  was 
resolved  that  misfortune  should  not  part  us.  At  last  he  etn- 
braced  me  tenderly,  and  consented  to  what  he  could  not  resist. 
"But  you  cannot,"  he  said,  "quit  England  to-morrow  night,  as 
I  must." 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  answered,  "  the  briefer  the  preparation,  the 
greater  the  excitement,  and  what  in  life  is  equal  to  that!  " 

"  True,"  answered  Bolingbroke  ;  "  To  some  natures,  too  rest- 
less to  be  happy,  excitement  can  compensate  for  all  ;  compen- 
sate for  years  wasted,  and  hopes  scattered — compensate  for 
bitter  regret  at  talents  perverted  and  passions  unrestrained. 
But  we  will  talk  philosophically  when  we.  have  more  leisure. 
You  will  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ;  we  will  go  to  the  play 
together — I  promised  poor  Lucy  that  I  would  see  her  at  the 
theater,  and  I  cannot  break  my  word — and  an  hour  afterwards 

♦Vainly  have  you  banished  Cassius,  if  you  shall  suffer  the  rivals  of  the  Bpituscs  ^o 
spread  themselves  and  flourish, 
t  Confident  of  soul  and  prepared  for  either  fortune, 


2lS  DEVERKUX. 

we  will  connnence  our  excursion  to  Paris.     And  now  I  will 
explain  to  you  the  plan  I  have  arranged  for  our  escape." 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  real  Actors  Spectators  of  the  false  ones. 

It  was  a  brilliant  night  at  the  theatre.  The  boxes  were  crowd- 
ed to  excess.  Every  eye  was  directed  towards  Lord  Boling- 
broke,  who,  with  his  usual  dignified  and  consummate  grace  of 
manner,  conversed  with  the  various  loiterers  with  whom,  from 
time  to  time,  his  box  was  filled. 

"  Look  yonder,"  said  a  very  young  man,  of  singular  personal 
beauty,  "look  yonder,  my  lord,  what  a  panoply  of  smiles  the 
Duchess  wears  to-night,  and  how  triumphantly  she  directs  those 
eyes,  which  they  say  were  once  so  beautiful,  to  your  box." 

"  Ah,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "  her  grace  does  me  too  much  honor  ; 
I  must  not  neglect  to  acknowledge  her  courtesy  ";  and,  leaning 
over  the  box,  Bolingbroke  watched  his  opportunity  till  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  wlio  sat  opposite  him,  and  who  was 
talking  with  great  and  evidently  joyous  vivacity  to  a  tall,  thin 
man  beside  her,  directed  her  attention,  and  that  of  her  whole 
party,  in  a  fixed  and  concentrated  stare,  to  the  imperilled  min- 
ister. With  a  dignified  smile  Lord  Bolingbroke  then  put  his 
hand  to  his  heart,  and  bowed  profoundly  ;  the  Duchess  looked 
a  little  abashed,  but  returned  the  courtesy  quickly  and  slightly, 
and  renewed  her  conversation. 

"  Faith,  my  lord,"  cried  the  young  gentleman  who  had  before 
spoken,  "you  managed  that  well!  No  reproach  is  like  that 
which  we  clothe  in  a  smile,  and  present  with  a  bow." 

"  I  am  happy,"  said  Lord  Bolingbroke,  "  that  my  conduct  re- 
ceives the  grave  support  of  a  son  of  my  political  opponent." 

"  Grave  support,  my  Lord !  you  are  mistaken — never  apply 
the  epithet  grave  to  anything  belonging  to  Philip  Wharton. 
But,  in  sober  earnest,  I  have  sat  long  enough  with  you  to  terrify 
all  my  friends,  and  must  now  show  my  worshipful  face  in  another 
part  of  the  house.  Count  Devereux,  will  you  come  with  me 
to  the  Duchess's?" 

"  What !  the  Duchess's  immediately  after  Lord  Boling- 
broke's  ! — the  Whig  after  the  Tory — it  would  be  as  trying  to 
one's  assurance  as  a  change  from  the  cold  bath  to  the  hot  to 
one's  constitution." 

"  Well,  and  what  so  delightful  ag  a  trial  in  which  one  triumphs  ? 


DEVEREUX.  219 

and  a  change  in  which  one  does  not  lose  even  one's  counte- 
nance?" 

"Take  care,  my  lord,"  said  Bolingbroke,  laughing;  "those 
are  dangerous  sentiments  for  a  man  like  you,  to  whom  the 
hopes  of  two  great  parties  are  directed,  to  express  so  openly, 
even  on  a  trifle,  and  in  a  jest." 

"'Tis  for  that  reason  I  utter  them.  I  like  being  the  object 
of  hope  and  fear  to  men,  since  my  miserable  fortune  made  me 
marry  at  fourteen,  and  cease  to  be  aught  but  a  wedded  thing 
to  the  women.  But,  sup  with  me  at  the  Bedford — you,  my  lord, 
and  the  Count." 

"  And  you  will  ask  Walpole,  Addison,  and  Steele  *  to  join 
us ;  eh  ? "  said  Bolingbroke,  "  No,  we  have  other  engagementa 
for  to-night ;  but  we  shall  meet  again  soon." 

And  the  eccentric  youth  nodded  his  adieu,  disappeared,  and 
a  minute  afterwards  was  seated  by  the  side  of  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough. 

"  There  goes  a  boy,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "  who,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  has  in  him  the  power  to  be  the  greatest  man  of  his  day, 
and  in  all  probability  will  only  be  the  most  singular.  An  ob- 
stinate man  is  sure  of  doing  well  ;  a  wavering  or  a  whimsical  one 
(which  is  the  same  thing)  is  as  uncertain,  even  in  his  elevation, 
as  a  shuttlecock.  But  look  to  the  box  at  the  right — do  you  see 
the  beautiful  Lady  Mary?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Trefusis,  who  was  with  us,  "  she  has  only 
just  come  to  town.  'Tis  said  she  and  Ned  Montague  live  like 
doves." 

"  How  !"  said  Lord  Bolingbroke  ;  "that  quick,  restless  eye 
seems  to  have  very  little  of  the  dove  in  it." 

"  But  how  beautiful  she  is  ! "  said  Trefusis,  admiringly. 
"  What  a  pity  that  those  exquisite  hands  should  be  so  dirty  !  Jt 
reminds  me"  (Trefusis  loved  a  coarse  anecdote)  "of  her  answer 
to  old  Madame  de  Noailles,  who  made  exactly  the  same  remark 
to  her.  '  Do  3'ou  call  my  hands  dirty  ? '  cried  Lady  Mary,  hold- 
ing them  up  with  the  most  innocent  naivete,  *  Ah,  Madame,  si 
vous  pouviez  voir  vies  pieds .' ' " 

"  Fi  done!"  said  I,  turning  away  ;  "  but  who  is  that  very  de- 
formed man  behind  her, — he  with  the  bright  black  eye  ? " 

"  Know  you  not  ?  "  said  Bolingbroke  ;  "  Tell  it  not  in  Gath  ! 
— 'tis  a  rising  sun,  whom  I  have  already  learned  to  worship — 
the  young  author  of  the  '  Essay  on  Criticism,'  and  the  *  Rape  of 
the  Lock.'  Egad,  the  little  poet  seems  to  eclipse  us  with  the 
women  as  much  as  with  the  men.     Do  you  mark  how  eagerly 

*  All  political  opponents  of  Lord  Bolingbroke. 


220  DEVEREUX. 

Lady  Mary  listens  to  him,  even  though  the  tall  gentleman  in 
black,  who  in  vain  attempts  to  win  her  attentions,  is  thought 
the  handsomest  gallant  in  London?  Ah,  Genius  is  paid  by 
smiles  from  all  females  but  Fortune  ;  little,  methinks,  does  that 
youngpoet,  inhis  first  intoxication  of  flattery  and  fame,  guess 
what  a  lot  of  contest  and  strife  is  in  store  for  him.  The  very 
breath  which  a  literary  man  respires  is  hot  with  hatred,  and  the 
youthful  proselyte  enters  that  career  which  seems  to  him  so 
glittering,  even  as  Dame  Pliant's  brother  in  the  Alchemist  en- 
tered town — not  to  be  fed  with  luxury,  and  diet  on  pleasure, 
but  *  to  learn  to  quarrel  and  live  by  his  wits.' " 

The  play  was  now  nearly  over.  With  great  gravity  I-ord 
Bolingbroke  summoned  one  of  the  principal  actors  to  his  box, 
and  bespoke  a  play  for  the  next  week  ;  leaning  then  on  my  arm, 
he  left  the  theatre.  We  hastened  to  his  home,  put  on  our  dis- 
guises, and,  without  any  adventure  worth  recounting,  effected 
our  escape,  and  landed  safely  at  Calais. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Paris. — A    Female    Politician,  and  an  Ecclesiastical  One. — Sundry  other 

Matters. 

The  ex-minister  was  received  both  at  Calais  and  at  Paris 
with  the  most  gratifying  honors — he  was  then  entirely  the  man 
to  captivate  the  French.  The  beauty  of  his  person,  the  grace 
of  his  manner,  his  consummate  taste  in  all  things,  the  exceed- 
ing variety  and  sparkling  vivacity  of  his  conversation,  enchanted 
them.  In  later  life  he  has  grown  more  reserved  and  profound, 
even  in  habitual  intercourse,  and  attention  is  now  fixed  to  the 
solidity  of  the  diamond,  as  at  that  time  one  was  too  dazzled  to 
think  of  anything  but  its  brilliancy. 

While  Bolingbroke  was  receiving  visits  of  state,  I  busied 
myself  in  inquiring  after  a  certain  Madame  de  Balzac.  The 
reader  will  remember  that  the  envelope  of  that  letter  which 
Oswald  had  brought  to  me  at  Devereux  Court  was  signed  by 
the  letters  C.  de  B.  Now,  when  Oswald  disappeared,  after  that 
dreadful  night  to  which  even  now  I  can  scarcely  bring  myself 
to  allude,  these  initials  occurred  to  my  remembrance,  and 
Oswald  having  said  they  belonged  to  a  lady  formerly  intimate 
with  my  father,  I  inquired  of  my  mother  if  she  could  guess  to 
what  French  lady  such  initials  would  apply.  She,  with  an  evident 
pang  of  jealousy,  mentioned  a  Madame  de  Balzac ;  and  to  this 


DEVEREUX.  22  r 

lady  I  now  resolved  to  address  myself,  with  the  faint  hope  of 
learning  from  her  some  intelligence  respecting  Oswald.  It  was 
not  difficult  to  find  out  the  abode  of  one  who  in  her  day  had 
played  no  inconsiderable  rdle  in  that  Comedy  of  Errors, — the 
Great  World.  She  was  still  living  at  Paris  ;  what  French- 
woman would,  if  she  could  help  it,  live  any  where  else  ?  "There 
are  a  hundred  gates,"  said  the  witty  Madame  de  Choisi  to  me, 
"which  lead  into  Paris,  but  only  two  roads  out  of  it, — the 
convent,  or  (odious  word  !)  the  grave." 

I  hastened  to  Madame  Balzac's  hotel.  I  was  ushered  through 
three  magnificent  apartments  into  one,  which  to  my  eyes  seemed 
to  contain  a  throne:  upon  a  nearer  inspection  I  discovered  it 
was  a  bed.  Upon  a  large  chair,  by  a  very  bad  fire — ii  was  in 
the  month  of  March — sat  a  tall,  handsome  woman,  excessively 
painted,  and  dressed  in  a  manner  which  to  my  taste,  accustomed 
to  English  finery,  seemed  singularly  plain.  I  had  sent  in  the 
morning  to  request  permission  to  wait  on  her,  so  that  she  was 
prepared  for  my  visit.  She  rose,  offered  me  her  cheek,  kissed 
mine,  shed  several  tears,  and  in  short  testified  a  great  deal  of 
kindness  towards  me.  Old  ladies,  who  have  flirted  with  our 
fathers,  always  seem  to  claim  a  sort  of  property  in  the  sons ! 

Before  she  resumed  her  seat  she  held  me  out  at  arm's  length, 
"You  have  a  family  likeness  to  your  brave  father,"  said  she, 
with  a  little  disappointment ;  "but — " 

"  Madame  de  Balzac  would  add,"  interrupted  I,  filling  up 
the  sentence  which  I  saw  her  bienveillance  had  made  her  break 
off,  "Madame  de  Balzac  would  add  that  I  am  not  so  good-look- 
ing. It  is  true  ;  the  likeness  is  transmitted  to  me  within  rather 
than  without ;  and  if  I  have  not  my  father's  privilege  to  be 
admired,  I  have  at  least  his  capacities  to  admire,"  and  I  bowed. 

Madame  de  Balzac  took  three  large  pinches  of  snuff.  "That 
is  very  well  said,"  said  she  gravely :  "very  well  indeed  !  not  at 
all  like  your  father,  though,  who  never  paid  a  compliment  in 
his  life.  Your  clothes,  by  the  by,  are  in  exquisite  taste  :  I  had 
no  idea  that  English  people  had  arrived  at  such  perfection  in 
the  fine  arts.  Your  face  is  a  little  too  long !  You  admire 
Racine,  of  course ?     How  do  you  like  Paris?" 

All  this  was  not  said  gayly  or  quickly :  Madame  de  Balzac 
was  by  no  means  a  gay  or  a  quick  person.  She  belonged  to  a 
peculiar  school  of  Frenchwomen,  who  affected  a  little  languor, 
a  great  deal  of  stiffness,  an  indifference  to  forms  when  forms 
were  to  be  used  by  themselves,  and  an  unrelaxing  demand  of 
forms  when  forms  were  to  be  observed  to  them  by  others. 
Added  to  this,  they  talked  piamiy  upon  all  matters,  without 


622  DEVEREUX. 

ever  entering  upon  sentiment.  This  was  the  school  she  belonged 
to ;  but  she  possessed  the  traits  of  the  individual  as  well  as  of 
the  species.  She  was  keen,  ambitious,  worldly,  not  unaffec' 
tionate,  nor  unkind  ;  very  proud,  a  little  of  the  devotee — because 
it  was  the  fasliion  to  be  so — an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  military 
glory,  and  a  most  prying,  searching,  intriguing  schemer  of 
politics  without  the  slightest  talent  for  the  science. 

"Like  Paris!  "  said  I,  answering  only  the  last  question,  and 
that  not  with  the  most  scrupulous  regard  to  truth.  "Can 
Madame  de  Balzac  think  of  Paris,  and  not  conceive  the  trans- 
port which  must  inspire  a  person  entering  it  for  the  first  time? 
But  I  had  something  more  endearing  than  a  stranger's  interest 
to  attach  me  to  it ;  I  longed  to  express  to  my  father's  friend 
my  gratitude  for  the  interest  which  I  venture  to  believe  she  on 
one  occasion  manifested  towards  me." 

"Ah  !  you  mean  my  caution  to  you  against  that  terrible  De 
Montreuil.     Yes,  I  trust  I  was  of  service  to  you  there." 

And  Madame  de  Balzac  then  proceeded  to  favor  me  with  the 
whole  history  of  the  manner  in  which  she  had  obtained  the 
letter  she  had  sent  me,  accompanied  by  a  thousand  anathemas 
against  those  atroces  Je'suites,  and  a  thousand  eulogies  on  her 
own  genius  and  virtues.  I  brought  her  from  this  subject,  so 
interesting  to  herself,  as  soon  as  decorum  would  allow  me : 
and  I  then  made  inquiry  if  she  knew  aught  of  Oswald,  or  could 
suggest  any  mode  of  obtaining  intelligence  respecting  him. 
Madame  de  Balzac  hated  plain,  blunt,  blank  questions,  and  she 
always  travelled  through  a  wilderness  of  parentheses,  before 
she  answered  them.  But  at  last  I  did  ascertain  her  answer, 
and  found  it  utterly  unsatisfactory.  She  had  never  seen  nor 
heard  anything  of  Oswald  since  he  had  left  her  charged  with 
her  commission  to  me.  I  then  questioned  her  respecting  the 
character  of  the  man,  and  found  Mr.  Marie  Oswald  had  little 
to  plume  himself  upon  in  that  respect.  He  seemed,  however, 
from  her  account  of  him,  to  be  more  a  rogue  than  a  villain  ; 
and,  from  two  or  three  stories  of  his  cowardice,  which  Madame 
de  Balzac  related,  he  appeared  to  me  utterly  incapable  of  a 
design  so  daring  and  systematic  as  that  of  which  it  pleased  all 
persons  who  troubled  themselves  about  my  affairs,  to  suspect 
him. 

Finding,  at  last,  that  no  further  information  was  to  be  gained 
on  this  point,  I  turned  the  conversation  to  Montreuil.  I  found, 
from  Madame  de  Balzac's  very  abuse  of  him,  that  he  enjoyed  a 
great  reputation  in  the  country,  and  a  great  favor  at  court 
He  had  been  early  befriended  by  Father  la  Chaise,  and  he  was 


DEVEREUX.  223 

now  especially  trusted  and  esteemed  by  the  successor  of  that 
Jesuit,  Le  Tellier  ;  Le  Tellier,  that  rigid  and  bigoted  servant 
of  Loyola — the  sovereign  of  the  king  hiniself — the  destroyer  of 
the  Port  Royal,  and  the  mock  and  terror  of  the  be-devilled  and 
persecuted  Jansenists.  Besides  this,  I  learnt  what  has  been 
before  pretty  clearly  evident — viz.,  that  Montreuil  was  greatly 
in  the  confidence  of  the  Chevalier,  and  that  he  was  supposed 
already  to  have  rendered  essential  service  to  the  Stuart  cause. 
His  reputation  had  increased  with  every  year,  and  was  as  great 
for  private  sanctity  as  for  political  talent. 

When  this  information,  given  in  a  very  different  spirit  from 
that  in  which  I  retail  it,  was  over,  Madame  de  Balzac  ob- 
served :  **  Doubtless  you  will  obtain  a  private  audience  with 
the  King?" 

"  Is  it  possible,  in  his  present  age  and  infirmities  ?" 

"  It  ought  to  be,  to  the  son  of  the  brave  Marshal  Devereux." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  receive  Madame's  instructions  how  to 
obtain  the  honor  :  her  name  would,  I  feel,  be  a  greater  pass- 
port to  the  royal  presence  than  that  of  a  deceased  soldier  ;  and 
Venus's  cestus  may  obtain  that  grace  which  would  never  be 
accorded  to  the  truncheon  of  Mars  !  " 

Was  there  ever  so  natural  and  so  easy  a  compliment  ?  My 
Venus  of  fifty  smiled. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Count,"  said  she;  "I  have  no  interest 
at  court  :  the  Jesuits  forbid  that  to  a  Jansenist  :  but  I  will 
speak  this  very  day  to  the  Bishop  of  Frejus  :  he  is  related  to 
me,  and  will  obtain  so  slight  a  boon  for  you  with  ease.  He 
has  just  left  his  bishopric  :  you  know  how  he  hated  it.  Noth- 
ing could  be  pleasanter  than  his  signing  himself,  in  a  letter  to 
Cardinal  Quirini — ^  Fleurt,  ev/tjue  4e  Frejus  par  Vindi^naiion 
divine.^  The  King  does  not  like  him  much  ;  but  he  is  a  good 
man  on  the  whole,  though  Jesuitical ;  he  shall  introduce 
you." 

I  expressed  my  gratitude  for  the  favor,  and  hinted  that  pos- 
sibly the  relations  of  my  father's  first  wife,  the  haughty  and 
ancient  house  of  La  Tremouille,  might  save  the  Bishop  of 
Frejus  from  the  pain  of  exerting  himself  on  my  behalf. 

"You  are  very  much  mistaken,"  answered  Madame  de  Bal- 
zac :  "  priests  point  tlie  road  to  court,  as  well  as  to  heaven  ; 
and  warriors  and  nobles  have  as  little  to  do  with  the  former  as 
they  have  with  the  latter,  the  unlucky  Due  de  Villars  only 
excepted — a  man  whose  ill  fortune  is  enough  to  destroy  all  the 
laurels  of  France.  Ma  foi  !  I  believe  the  poor  Duke  might 
rival  in  luck  that  Italian  poet  who  said,  in  a  fit  of  despair,  that 


224  DEVEREUX. 

if  he  liad  been  bred  a  hatter,  men  would  have  been  born  with- 
out heads." 

And  Madame  de  Balzac  chuckled  over  tliis  joke  till,  seeing 
that  no  farther  news  was  to  be  gleaned  from  her,  I  made  my 
adieu,  and  my  departure. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  kindness  manifested  towards  me 
by  my  father's  early  connections.  The  circumstance  of  my 
accompanying  Bolingbroke,  joined  to  my  age,  and  an  address 
which,  if  not  animated  nor  gay,  had  not  been  acquired  without 
some  youthful  cultivation  of  the  graces,  gave  me  a  sort  of  eclat 
as  well  as  consideration.  And  Bolingbroke,  who  was  only 
jealous  of  superiors  in  power,  and  who  had  no  equals  in  any- 
thing else,  added  greatly  to  my  reputation  by  his  panegyrics. 

Every  one  sought  me — and  the  attention  of  society  at  Paris 
would,  to  most,  be  worth  a  little  trouble  to  repay.  Perhaps,  if 
I  had  liked  it,  I  might  have  been  the  rage  ;  but  that  vanity  was 
over.  I  contented  myself  with  being  admitted  into  society  as  an 
observer,  without  a  single  wish  to  become  the  observed.  When 
one  has  once  outlived  the  ambition  of  fashion  I  know  not  a 
greater  affliction  than  an  over-attention  ;  and  the  Spectator  did 
just  what  I  should  have  done  in  a  similar  case,  when  he  left  his 
lodgings  "because  he  was  asked  every  morning  how  he  had 
slept."  In  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  court,  the  King's 
devotion,  age,  and  misfortunes  threw  a  damp  over  society  ;  but 
there  were  still  some  sparkling  circles,  who  put  the  King  out  of 
the  mode,  and  declared  that  the  defeats  of  his  generals  made 
capital  subjects  for  epigrams.  What  a  delicate  and  subtle  air 
did  hang  over  those  soirdes,  where  all  that  were  bright  and 
lovely,  and  noble  and  gay,  and  witty  and  wise,  were  assembled 
in  one  brilliant  cluster  !  Imperfect  as  my  rehearsals  must  be, 
I  think  the  few  pages  I  shall  devote  to  a  description  of  these 
glittering  conversations  must  still  retain  something  of  that  origi- 
nal piquancy  which  the  soirees  of  no  other  capital  could  rival 
or  appreciate. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  my  interview  with  Madame 
de  Balzac,  I  received  a  note  from  her,  requesting  me  to  visit 
her  that  day,  and  appointing  the  hour. 

Accordingly  I  repaired  to  the  house  of  the  fair  politician. 
I  found  her  with  a  man  in  a  clerical  garb,  and  of  a  benevolent 
and  prepossessing  countenance.  She  introduced  him  to  me  as 
the  Bishop  of  Frejus,  and  he  received  me  with  an  air  very 
uncommon  to  his  countrymen,  viz.,  with  an  ease  that  seemed 
to  result  from  real  good  nature,  rather  than  artificial  grace. 

"I  shall  feel,"  said  he,  quietly,  and  without  the  least  appear- 


DEVEREUX.  225 

ance  of  paying  a  compliment,  "  very  glad  to  mention  your  wish 
to  his  Majesty  ;  and  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  but  tliat  he  will 
admit  to  his  presence  one  who  had  such  hereditary  claims  on 
his  notice.  Madame  de  Maintenon,  by  the  way,  has  charged 
me  to  present  you  to  her,  whenever  you  will  give  me  the  oppor- 
tunity. She  knew  your  admirable  motlicr  well,  and,  for  her 
sake,  wishes  once  to  see  you.  You  know,  perhaps,  Monsieur, 
that  the  extreme  retirement  of  her  life  renders  this  message 
from  Madame  de  Maintenon  an  unusual  and  rare  honor." 

I  expres  ,cd  my  thanks  ;  the  bishop  received  them  with  a 
paternal  rather  than  a  courtier-like  air,  and  appointed  a  day  for 
me  to  attend  him  to  the  palace.  We  then  conversed  a  short 
time  upon  indifferent  matters,  which,  I  observed,  the  good 
bishop  took  especial  pains  to  preserve  clear  from  French  poli- 
tics. He  asked  me,  however,  two  or  three  questions  about  the 
state  of  parties  in  England — about  finance  and  the  national 
debt — about  Ormond  and  Oxford  ;  and  appeared  to  give  the 
most  close  attention  to  my  replies.  He  smiled  once  or  twice, 
when  his  relation,  Madame  de  Balzac,  broke  out  into  sarcasms 
against  the  Jesuits,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  subjects 
in  question. 

**  AJi,  ma  chere  cousine,"  said  he,  "you  flatter  me  by  showing 
that  you  like  me  not  as  the  politician,  but  the  private  relation — 
not  as  the  Bishop  of  Frejus,  but  as  Andre  de  Fleuri." 

Madame  de  Balzac  smiled,  and  answered  by  a  compliment. 
She  was  a  politician  for  the  kingdom,  it  is  true,  but  she  was  also 
a  politician  for  herself.  She  was  far  from  exclaiming  with  Pin- 
dar, "  Thy  business,  O  my  city,  I  prefer  willingly  to  my  own." 
Ah,  there  is  a  nice  distinction  between  politics  and  policy,  and 
Madame  de  Balzac  knew  it.  The  distinction  is  this  :  Politics 
is  the  art  of  being  wise  for  others  !  Policy  is  the  art  of  being 
wise  for  oneself. 

From  Madame  de  Balzac's  I  went  to  Bolingbroke.  "  I  have 
just  been  offered  the  place  of  Secretary  of  State,  by  the  Eng- 
lish king  on  this  side  of  the  water,"  said  he  ;  "I  do  not,  how- 
ever, yet  like  to  commit  myself  so  fully.  And,  indeed,  I  am  not 
unwilling  to  have  a  little  relaxation  of  pleasure,  after  all  these 
dull  and  dusty  travails  of  state.  What  say  you  to  Boulainvil- 
liers  to-night— you  are  asked?" 

"  Yes  !  all  the  wits  are  to  be  there — Anthony  Hamilton — and 
Fontenelle — young  Arouet — Chaulieu,  that  charming  old  man. 
Let  us  go  and  polish  away  the  wrinkles  of  our  hearts.  What 
cosmetics  are  to  the  face,  wit  is  to  the  temper  ;  and,  after  all, 
there  is  no  wisdom  like  that  which  teaches  us  to  forget." 


22§  DEVEREUX. 


"  Come  then,"  said  Bolingbroke,  rising,  "  we  will  lock  up 
these  papers,  and  take  a  melancholy  drive,  in  order  that  we  may 
enjoy  mirth  the  better  by  and  by." 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  Meeting  of  Wits. — Conversation  gone  out  to  Supper  in  her  Dress  of 
Velvet  and  Jewels. 

BouLAiNViLLiERs!  Comtc  de  St.  Saire  !  What  will  our  great 
grandchildren  think  of  that  name  !  P'ame  is  indeed  a  riddle  ! 
At  the  time  I  refer  to,  wit — learning — grace — all  things  that 
charm  and  enlighten — were  supposed  to  center  in  one  word — 
Boulainvilliers  !  The  good  count  had  many  rivals,  it  is  true, 
but  he  had  that  exquisite  tact  peculiar  to  his  countrymen,  of 
making  the  very  reputation  of  those  rivals  contribute  to  his 
own.  And  while  he  assembled  them  around  him,  the  lustre  of 
their  botis  mots,  though  it  emanated  from  themselves,  was  re- 
flected upon  him. 

It  was  a  pleasant,  though  not  a  costly,  apartment,  in  which 
we  found  our  host.  The  room  was  sufficiently  full  of  people 
to  allow  scope  and  variety  to  one  group  of  talkers,  without 
being  full  enough  to  permit  those  little  knots  and  coteries  which 
are  the  destruction  of  literary  society.  An  old  man  of  about 
seventy,  of  a  sharp,  shrewd,  yet  polished  and  courtly  expression 
of  countenance,  of  a  great  gayety  of  manner,  which  was  now 
and  then  rather  displeasingly  contrasted  by  an  abrupt  affecta- 
tion of  dignity,  that,  however,  rarely  lasted  above  a  minute, 
and  never  withstood  the  shock  of  a  bon  mot,  was  the  first  person 
who  accosted  us.  This  old  man  was  the  wreck  of  the  once 
celebrated  Anthony,  Count  Hamilton  !  "'•  ''•'■''3' 

"Well,  my  lord,"  said  he  to  Bolingbroke,  "fiow  do  you  like 
the  weather  at  Paris  ? — it  is  a  little  better  than  the  merciless 
air  of  London — is  it  not  ?  'Slife  ! — even  in  June  one  could 
not  go  open-breasted  in  those  regions  of  cold  and  catarrh— a 
very  great  misfortune,  let  me  tell  you,  my  lord,  if  one's  cambric 
happened  to  be  of  a  very  delicate  and  brilliant  texture,  and  one 
wished  to  penetrate  the  inward  folds  of  a  lady's  heart,  by 
developing  to  the  best  advantage  the  exterior  folds  that  cov- 
ered his  own." 

"It  is  the  first  time,"  answered  Bolingbroke,  "that  I  ever 
heard  so  accomplished  a  courtier  as  Count  Hamilton  repine^ 
with  sincerity,  that  he  could  not  bare  his  bosom  to  inspection."* 


DEVEREUX.  227 

"  Ah  ! "  cried  Boulainvilliers,  "  but  vanity  makes  a  man  show 
much  that  discretion  would  conceal." 

"Au  diable  with  your  discretion  !  "  said  Hamilton,  "  'tis  a  vul- 
gar virtue.  Vanity  is  a  truly  aristocratic  quality,  and  every 
way  fitted  to  a  gentleman.  Should  I  ever  have  been  renowned 
for  my  exquisite  lace  and  web-like  cambric,  if  1  had  not  been 
vain  ?  Never,  vion  cher!  I  should  have  gone  into  a  convent 
and  worn  sackcloth,  and,  from  Count  Antoine^  I  should  have 
thickened  into  Saint  Anthony" 

"Nay,"  cried  Lord  Bolingbroke,  "there  is  as  much  scope 
for  vanity  in  sackcloth  as  there  is  in  cambric  ;  for  vanity  is  like 
the  Irish  ogling  master  in  the  Spectator,  and  if  it  teaches  the 
playliouse  to  ogle  by  candle-light,  it  also  teaches  the  church  to 
ogle  by  day  !  But,  pardon  me.  Monsieur  Chaulieu,  how  well 
you  look !  I  see  that  the  myrtle  sheds  its  verdure,  not 
only  over  your  poetry,  but  the  poet.  And  it  is  right  that, 
to  the  modern  Anacreon,  who  has  bequeathed  to  Time  a 
treasure  it  will  never  forego,  Time  itself  should  be  gentle  in 
return." 

"  Milord,"  answered  Chaulieu,  an  old  man  who,  though  con- 
siderably past  seventy,  was  animated,  in  appearance  and  man- 
ner, with  a  vivacity  and  life  that  would  have  done  honor  to  a 
youth — "  Milord,  it  was  beautifully  said  by  the  Emperor  Julian, 
that  Justice  retained  the  Graces  in  her  vestibule.  I  see,  now, 
that  he  should  have  substituted  the  word  Wisdom  for  that  of 
Justice." 

"  Come,"  cried  Anthony  Hamilton,  "  this  will  never  do. 
Compliments  are  the  dullest  things  imaginable.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  let  us  leave  panegyric  to  blockheads,  and  say  something 
bitter  to  one  another,  or  we  shall  die  of  ennui.'* 

■'  Right,"  said  Boulainvilliers :  **  Let  us  pick  out  some  poor 
devil  to  begin  with.     Absent  or  present  ? — Decide  which." 

"Oh,  absent,"  cried  Chaulieu  ;  "  'tis  a  thousand  times  more 
piquant  to  slander  than  to  rally  !  Let  us  commence  with  his 
Majesty  :  Count  Devereux,  have  you  seen  Madame  Maintenon 
and  her  devout  infant  since  your  arrival  ?  " 

"  No  ! — the  priests  must  be  petitioned  before  the  miracle  is 
made  public." 

"  What  !  "  cried  Chaulieu,  "  would  you  insinuate  that  his 
Majesty's  piety  is  really  nothing  less  than  a  miracle?" 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Boulainvilliers,  gravely, — "piety  is  as 
natural  to  kings  as  flattery  to  their  courtiers  :  are  we  not  told 
that  they  are  made  in  God's  own  image  ?" 

"  If  that  were  true,"  said  Count  Hamilton,  somewhat  pro 


228  DEVEREUX. 

fanely — "  if  that  were  true,  I  should  no  longer  defy  the  impos- 
sibility of  Atheism  !  " 

"  Fie,  Count  Hamilton,"  said  an  old  gentleman,  in  whom  I 
recognized  the  great  Huet,  "  fie — wit  should  beware  how  it 
uses  wings — its  province  is  earth,  not  heaven." 

"Nobody  can  better  tell  what  wit  is  not  than  the  learned 
Abb^  Huet !  "  answered  Hamilton  with  a  mock  air  of  respect. 

"  Psha  !  "  cried  Chaulieu,  "  I  thought  when  we  once  gave  the 
rein  to  satire  it  would  carry  us  pele-mele  against  one  another. 
But,  in  order  to  sweeten  that  drop  of  lemon-juice  for  you  my 
dear  Huet,  let  me  turn  to  Milord  Bolingbroke,  and  ask  him 
whether  England  can  produce  a  scholar  equal  to  Peter  Huet, 
who  in  twenty  years  wrote  notes  to  sixty-two  volumes  of  Class- 
ics,* for  the  sake  of  a  prince  who  never  read  a  line  in  one  of 
them  ?" 

*'  We  have  some  scholars,"  answered  Bolingbroke  ;  "  but  we 
certainly  have  no  Huet.  It  is  strange  enough,  but  learning 
seems  to  me  like  a  circle  ;  it  grows  weaker  the  more  it  spreads. 
We  now  see  many  people  capable  of  reading  commentaries,  but 
very  few  indeed  capable  of  writing  them." 

"  True,"  answered  Huet ;  and  in  his  reply  he  introduced  the 
celebrated  illustration  which  is  at  this  day  mentioned  among 
his  mos:t  felicitous  hotis  mots.  "  Scholarship,  formerly  the  most 
difficult  and  unaided  enterprise  of  Genius,  has  now  been  made, 
by  the  very  toils  of  the  first  mariners,  but  an  easy  and  common- 
place voyage  of  leisure.  .But  who  would  compare  the  great 
men,  whose  very  difficulties  not  only  proved  their  ardor,  but 
brought  them  the  patience  and  the  courage  which  alone  are  the 
parents  of  a  genuine  triumph,  to  the  indolent  loiterers  of  the 
present  day,  who,  having  little  of  difficulty  to  conquer,  have 
nothing  of  glory  to  attain  ?  For  my  part,  there  seems  to  me 
the  same  difference  between  a  scholar  of  our  days  and  one  of 
the  past  as  there  is  between  Christopher  Columbus  and  the 
master  of  a  packet-boat  from  Calais  to  Dover  !  " 

"  But,"  cried  Anthony  Hamilton,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  with 
the  air  of  a  man  about  to  utter  a  witty  thing — "  but  what  have 
we — we  spirits  of  the  world,  not  imps  of  the  closet," — and  he 
glanced  at  Huet—"  to  do  with  scholarship  ?  All  the  waters  of 
Castaly,  which  we  want  to  pour  into  our  brain,  are  such  as  will 
flow  the  readiest  to  our  tongue." 

"  In  short,  then,"  said  I,  "  you  would  assert  that  all  a  friend 
cares  for  in  one's  head  is  the  quantity  of  talk  in  it  ?" 

"  Precisely  my  dear  Count,"  said  Hamilton  seriously  ;  "  and 

*  The  Delphi'n  Classics. 


DEVEREUX.  229 

to  that  maxim  I  will  add  another,  applicable  to  the  opposite 
sex.  All  that  a  mistress  cares  for  in  one's  heart  is  the  quantity 
of  love  in  it." 

"  What  !  are  generosity,  courage,  honor,  to  go  for  nothing 
with  our  mistress,  then?"  cried  Chaulieu. 

"  No  ;  for  she  will  believe,  if  you  are  a  passionate  lover,  that 
you  have  all  those  virtues ;  and  if  not,  she  will  never  believe 
that  you  have  one." 

"  Ah  !  it  was  a  pretty  court  of  love  in  which  the  friend  and 
biographer  of  Count  Grammont  learned  the  art  !  "  said  Boling- 
broke. 

"  We  believed  so  at  the  time,  my  lord  ;  but  there  are  as  many 
changes  in  the  fashion  of  making  love  as  there  are  in  that  of 
making  dresses.  Honor  me,  Count  Devereux,  by  using  my 
snuff-box,  and  then  looking  at  the  lid." 

"  It  is  the  picture  of  Charles  the  Second,  which  adorns  it — 
is  it  not  ?  " 

"No,  Count  Devereux,  it  is  the  diamonds  which  adorn  it. 
His  Majesty's  face  I  thought  very  beautiful  while  he  was  living  ; 
but  now,  on  my  conscience,  I  consider  it  the  ugliest  phiz  I  ever 
beheld.  But  I  directed  your  notice  to  the  picture  because  we 
were  talking  of  love  ;  and  Old  Rowley  believed  that  he  could 
make  it  better  than  any  one  else.  All  his  courtiers  had  the 
same  opinion  of  themselves  ;  and  I  dare  say  the  beaux  gar f on s 
of  Queen  Anne's  reign  would  say  that  not  one  of  King  Charley's 
gang  knew  what  love  was.  Oh  !  'tis  a  strange  circle  of  revolu- 
tions, that  love  !  Like  the  earth,  it  always  changes,  and  yet 
always  has  the  same  materials." 

"  V Amour — V amour — toujours  Famour,  with  Count  Anthony 
Hamilton  ! "  said  Boulainvilliers.  "  He  is  always  on  that  sub- 
ject ;  and  sacre  bleu!  when  he  was  younger,  I  am  told  he  was 
like  Cacus,  the  son  of  Vulcan,  and  breathed  nothing  but  flames." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  Hamilton.  *'  Solve  me  now  a  knotty 
riddle,  nly  Lord  Bolingbroke.  Why  does  a  young  man  think 
it  the  greatest  compliment  to  be  thought  wise,  while  an  old  man 
thinks  it  the  greatest  compliment  to  be  told  he  has  been  foolish?" 

"Is  love  foolish,  then  ?  "  said  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

*'  Can  you  doubt  it  ?"  answered  Hamilton  ;  "it  makes  a^nan 
think  more  of  another  than  himself  f^  I  ktiow  not  a  greater 
proof  of  folly  ! "  ■ 

"Ah — mon  aimable  ami" — cried  Chaulieu;  "you  are  the 
wickedest  witty  person  I  know.  I  cannot  help  loving  your 
language,  while  I  hate  your  sentiments." 

"  My  language  is  my  own — my  sentiments  are  those  of  all 


230  DEVEREUX. 

men,"  answered  Hamilton  ;  "but  are  we  not, by  the  by,  to  have 
yoving  Arouet  here  to-night  ?     What  a  charming  person  he  is  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Boulainvilliers.  "He  said  he  should  be  late-, 
and  I  expect  Fontenelle,  too,  but  he  will  not  come  before  sup- 
per. I  found  Fontenelle  this  morning  conversing  with  my  cook 
on  the  best  manner  of  dressing  asparagus.  I  asked  him,  the 
other  day,  what  writer,  ancient  or  modern,  had  ever  given  him 
the  most  sensible  pleasure  ?  After  a  little  pause,  the  excellent 
old  man  said — *  Daphnus ' — '  Uaphnus  ! '  repeated  I,  '  who  the 
devil  is  he  ? '  '  Why,'  answered  Fontenelle,  with  tears  of  grati- 
tude in  his  benevolent  eyes, '  I  had  some  hypochondriacal  ideas 
that  suppers  were  unwholesome  ;  and  Daphnus  is  an  ancient 
pliysician,  who  asserts  the  contrary  ;  and  declares, — think,  my 
friend  what  a  charming  theory  ! — that  the  moon  is  a  great 
assistant  of  tlie  digestion  ! '" 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha ! "  laughed  the  Abbe  de  Chaulieu.  "  How  like 
Fontenelle  !  what  an  anomalous  creature  'tis  !  He  has  the 
most  kindness  and  the  least  feeling  of  any  man  I  ever  knew. 
Let  Hamilton  find  a  pithier  description  for  him  if  he  can  !" 

Whatever  reply  the  friend  oi  i\\e  preux  Grammoni m'\^\t  have 
made  was  prevented  by  the  entrance  of  a  young  man  of  about 
twenty-one. 

In  person  he  was  tall,  slight,  and  very  thin.  There  was  a 
certain  affectation  of  polite  address  in  his  manner  and  mien 
which  did  not  quite  become  him  ;  and  though  he  was  received 
by  the  old  wits  with  great  cordiality,  and  on  a  footing  of  per- 
fect equality,  yet  the  inexpressible  air  which  denotes  birth  was 
both  pretended  to  and  wanting.  This,  perhaps,  was  however 
owing  to  the  ordinary  inexperience  of  youth  ;  which,  if  not 
awkwardly  bashful,  is  generally  awkward  in  its  assurance. 
Whatever  its  cause,  the  impression  vanished  directly  he  entered 
into  conversation.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  encountered  a.  man  so 
brilliantly,  yet  so  easily,  witty.  He  had  but  little  of  the  studied 
allusion — the  antithetical  point — the  classic  metaphor,  which 
chiefly  characteri;5e  the'  wits  of  my  day.  On  the  contrary,  it 
was  an  exceeding  and  natve  simplicity,  which  gave  such  un- 
rivalled charm  and  piquancy  fo  his  conversation.  And  while  I 
have  not  scrupled  to  stamp  on  my  pages  some  faint  imitation 
of  the  peculiar  dialogue  of  other  eminent  characters,  I  must 
confess  myself  utterly  unable  to  convey  the  smallest  idea  of  his 
method  of  making  words  irresistible.  Contenting  my  efforts, 
therefore,  with  describing  his  persona^  appearance — interesting, 
because  that  of  the  most  striking  literary  character  it  has  been 
my  lot  to  meet — I  shall  omit  his  share  in  the  remainder  of  the 


DEVEREtrX.  ^31 

conversation  I  am  rehearsing,  and  beg  the  reader  to  recall  that 
passage  in  Tacitus,  in  which  the  great  historian  says,  that  in 
the  funeral  of  Junia^  "the  images  of  Brutus  and  Cassias  out- 
shone all  the  rest,  from  the  very  circumstance  of  their  being 
the  sole  ones  excluded  from  the  rite." 

The  countenance,  then,  of  Marie  Francois  Arouet  (since  so 
celebrated  under  the  name  of  Voltaire)  was  plain  in  feature, 
but  singularly  striking  in  effect ;  its  vivacity  was  the  very  per- 
fection of  what  Steele  once  happily  called  "physiognomical 
eloquence."  His  eyes  were  blue,  fiery  rather  than  bright,  and 
so  restless  that  they  never  dwelt  in  the  same  place  for  a 
moment ;  *  his  mouth  was  at  once  the  worst  and  the  most 
peculiar  feature  of  his  face :  it  betokened  humor,  it  is  true ; 
but  it  also  betrayed  malignancy — nor  did  it  ever  smile  without 
sarcasm.  Though  flattering  to  those  present,  his  words  against 
the  absent,  uttered  by  that  bitter  and  curling  lip,  mingled  with 
your  pleasure  at  their  wit  a  little  fear  at  their  causticity.  I 
believe  no  one,  be  he  as  bold,  as  callous,  or  as  faultless  as 
human  nature  can  be,  could  be  one  hour  with  that  man  and  not 
feel  apprehension.  Ridicule,  so  lavish,  yet  so  true  to  the  mark — 
so  wanton,  yet  so  seemingly  just — so  bright,  that  while  it  wan- 
dered round  its  target,  in  apparent,  though  terrible  playfulness, 
it  burned  into  the  spot,  and  engraved  there  a  brand  and  a  token 
indelible  and  perpetual, — this  no  man  could  witness,  when 
darted  towards  another,  and  feel  safe  for  himself.  The  very 
caprice  and  levity  of  the  jester  seemed  more  perilous,  because 
less  to  be  calculated  upon,  than  a  systematic  principle  of  bit- 
terness or  satire,  Bolingbroke  compared  him,  not  unaptl)-,  to 
a  child  who  has  possessed  himself  of  Jupiter's  bolts,  and  wlio 
makes  use  of  those  bolts  in  sport,  which  a  God  would  only  have 
used  in  wrath. 

Arouet's  forehead  was  not  remarkable  for  height,  but  it  was 
nobly  and  grandly  formed,  and,  contradicting  that  of  the  mouth, 
wore  a  benevolent  expression.  Though  so  young,  there  was 
already  a  wrinkle  on  the  surface  of  the  front,  and  a  prominence 
on  the  eyebrow,  which  showed  that  the  wit  and  the  fancy  of  his 
conversation  v»'ere,  if  not  regulated,  at  least  contrasted,  by  more 
thoughtful  and  lofty  characteristics  of  mind.  At  the  time  I  write, 
this  man  has  obtained  a  high  throne  among  the  powers  of  the 
lettered  world.     What  he  may  yet  be,  it  is  in  vain  to  guess  :  he 

*The  reader  •■will  ren)cinber  that  this  is  a  description  of  Voltaire, 4s  a  very  young  man.  I 
•do  not  know  any  where  a  more  impressive,  almost  a  more  ghastly,  contrast,  than  that  which 
the  pictures  of  Voltaire,  grown  ol'd,  present  to^  Largilliere's  picture  of  him  at  the  age  of 
twenty-four ;  and  he  was  somewhat  younger  than  twenty-four  at  the  time  of  which  the 
Count  now  speaks.— Eu. 


232  DEVEREUX. 

may  be  all  that  is  great  and  good,  or — the  reverse  ;  but  I  cannot 
but  believe  that  his  career  is  only  begun.  Such  men  are  born 
raonarchs  of  the  mind  ;  they  may  be  benefactors  or  tyrants  :  in 
either  case,  they  are  greater  than  the  kings  of  the  physical  empire, 
because  they  defy  armies  and  laugh  at  the  intrigues  of  state. 
From  themselves  only  come  the  balance  of  their  power,  thelav.s 
of  their  government,  and  the  boundaries  of  their  realm. 

We  sat  down  to  supper.  "  Count  Hamilton,"  said  Boulain- 
rilliers,  "  are  we  not  a  merry  set  for  such  old  fellows  ?  Why, 
excepting  Arouet,  Milord  Bolingbroke,  and  Count  Dovereux, 
there  is  scarcely  one  of  us  under  seventy.  Where,  bui  at  Paris, 
would  you  see  bons  vivants  of  our  age  ?  Vwent  lajuie — la  baga- 
telle!— r amour  !" 

^^Atlevinde  C/tampagne"  cried  Chaulieu,  filling  his  glass; 
"  but  what  is  there  strange  in  our  merriment  ?  Philemon,  the 
comic  poet,  laughed  at  ninety-seven.     May  we  all  do  the  same  ! " 

"  You  forget,"  cried  Bolingbroke  "that  Philemon  died  of  the 
laughing." 

'*  Yes,"  said  Hamilton  ;  "  but,  if  I  remember  right,  it  was  at 
seeing  an  ass  eat  figs.  Let  us  vow,  therefore,  never  to  keep 
company  with  asses  ! " 

"  Bravo,  Count,"  said  Boulainvilliers,  "you have  put  the  true 
moral  on  the  story.  Let  us  swear,  by  the  ghost  of  Philemon, 
that  we  will  never  laugh  at  an  ass's  jokes — practical  or  verbal." 

"  Then  we  must  always  be  serious,  except  when  we  are  with  each 
other,"  cried  Chaulieu.  "  Oh,  I  would  sooner  take  my  chance 
of  dying  prematurely  at  ninety-seven  than  consent  to  such  a 
vow  ! " 

"  Fontenelle,"  cried  our  host  "  you  are  melancholy.  W^hat 
is  the  matter  ? " 

"I  mourn  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature,"  answered 
Fontenelle,  with  an  air  of  patriarchal  philanthropy.  "  I  told 
your  cook  three  times  about  the  asparagus :  and  now — taste  it. 
I  told  him  not  to  put  too  much  sugar,  and  he  has  put  none. 
Thus  it  is  with  mankind — ever  in  extremes  and  consequently 
ever  in  error  !  Thus  it  was  that  Luther  said,  so  felicitously  and 
so  truly,  that  the  human  mind  was  like  a  drunken  peasant  on 
horseback — prop  it  on  one  side,  and  it  falls  on  the  other." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  cried  Chaulieu,  "  who  would  have  thought 
one  could  have  found  so  much  morality  in  a  plate  of  asparagus  J 
Taste  this  salsi^s." 

"  Pray,  Hamilton,"  said  Huet,  "  what jeu  de  mot  was  that 
you  made  yesterday  at  Madame  d'Epernonville's  which  gained 
you  such  applause  ?  " 


DEVEREU3C  233 

"  Ah,  repeat  it,  Count," cried  BouUiinvilliers;  "  'twas  the  most 

classical  thing  I  have  heard  for  a  long  time." 

"Why,"  said  Hamilton,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
preparing  himself  by  a  large  draught  of  the  champagne — "why 
Madame  d'Epernonville  appeared  without  her /c?«ry  you  know, 
Lord  Bolingbroke,  that  tour  is  the  polite  name  for  false  hair. 
'  Ah,  sacre ! '  cried  her  brother,  courteously,  '  f/ia  sceur,  que 
vous  etes  laide  aujouriVJiui — vous  tiavez  pas  voire  tour  ! '  '  Voi/d, 
pourquoi  die  71  est  pas  si-belle  {Cybele),'"  answered  I. 

"  Excellent !  famous  !  "  cried  we  all,  except  Huet,  who  seemed 
to  regard  the  punster  with  a  very  disrespectful  eye.  Hamilton 
saw  it.  "  You  do  not  think.  Monsieur  Huet,  that  there  is  wit  in 
these  jeux de  mots — perhaps  you  do  not  admire  wit  at  all?" 

"  Yes,  I  admire  wit  as  I  do  the  wind.  When  it  shakes  the 
trees,  it  is  fine  ;  when  it  cools  the  wave  it  is  refreshing  ;  when  it 
steals  over  flowers,  it  is  enchanting  ;  but  when.  Monsieur  Hamil- 
ton, it  whistles  through  the  key-hole,  it  is  unpleasant." 

"  The  very  worst  illustration  I  ever  heard,"  said  Hamilton, 
coolly.  "  Keep  to  your  classics,  my  dear  Abbe.  When  Jupiter 
edited  t'  e  work  of  Peter  Huet,  he  did  with  wit  as  Peter  Huet 
did  with  Lucan,  when  he  edited  the  classics — he  was  afraid  it 
might  do  mischief,  and  so  left  it  out  altogether." 

"  Let  us  drink !  "  cried  Chaulieu  ;  "  let  us  drink  !  "  and  the 
conversation  was  turned  again. 

"What  is  that  you  say  of  Tacitus,  Huet?"  said  Boulainvilliers. 

"  That  his  wisdom  arose  from  his  malignancy,"  answered 
Huet.  "  He  is. a  perfect  penetrator  *  into  human  vices;  but 
knows  nothing  of  human  virtues.  Do  you  think  that  a  good 
man  would  dwell  so  constantly  on  what  is  evil?  Believe  me — ■ 
no  !  A  man  cannot  write  much  and  well  upon  virtue  without 
being  virtuous,  nor  enter  minutely  and  profoundly  into  the 
causes  of  vice  without  being  vicious  himself." 

"It is  true,"  said  Hamilton:  "and  your  remark,  which  affects 
to  be  so  deep,  is  but  a  natural  corollary  from  the  hackneyed 
maxim  that  from  experience  comes  wisdom," 

"  But,  for  my  part,"  said  Boulainvilliers,  "  I  think  Tacitus 
is  not  so  invariably  the  analyzer  of  vice  as  you  would  make  him. 
Look  at  the  Agricola  and  the  Germania."  -     -,_,\f  .;:.. 

"  Ah  !  the  Germany,  above  all  things  !  "  cried  Hamilton, 
dropping  a  delicious  morsel  of  savglier  in  its  way  from  hand  to 
mouth,  in  his  hurry  to  speak.  "Of  course,  the  historian,  Bou- 
lainviUiers,  advocates  the  Germany,  from  its  mention  of  the 

*  A  remark  similar  to  this  the  reader  will  probably  remember  in  the  Huetiana,  and  will,  I 
hope,  agree  with  me  in  thinking  it  showy  and  untrue.— Ed. 


234  DEVEREUX. 

origin  of  the  feudal  system — that  incomparable  bundle  of  excel- 
lences, which  I,e  Cointe  de  Boulainvilliers  has  declared  to  be  le 
chef  d'ceuvre  de  I' esprit  huviain  :  and  which  the  same  gentleman 
regrets,  in  the  most  pathetic  terms,  no  longer  exists  in  order  that 
the  seigneur  may  feed  upon  des  gros  morceaux  de  boeuf  deiiii- 
cru,  may  hang  up  half  his  peasants  pour  encourager  les  atitres, 
and  ravish  the  daughters  of  the  defunct/^///-  leur  donner  quelque 
{onsolaiion." 

"  Seriously,  though,"  said  the  old  Abbe  de  Chaulieu,  with  a 
twinkling  eye,  "  the  last  mentioned  evil,  my  dear  Hamilton,  was 
not  without  a  little  alloy  of  good." 

"Yes,"  said  Hamilton,  "  if  it  was  only  the  daughters;  but 
perhaps  the  seigneur  was  not  too  scrupulous  with  regard  to 
the  wives." 

"Ah!  shocking,  shocking!  "cried  Chaulieu,  solemnly.  "Adul- 
tery is,  indeed,  an  atrocious  crime.  I  am  sure  I  would  most 
conscientiously  cry  out  with  the  honest  preacher — 'Adultery, 
my  children,  is  the  blackest  of  sins.'  I  do  declare  that  I  would 
rather  have  ten  virgins  in  love  with  me  than  one  married 
woman  ! " 

We  all  laughed  at  this  enthusiastic  burst  of  virtue  from  the 
chaste  Chaulieu.  And  Arouet  turned  our  conversation  towards 
the  ecclesiastical  dissensions  between  Jesuits  and  Jansenisls, 
that  then  agitated  the  kingdom.  "  Those  priests,"  said  Boling- 
broke,  "  remind  me  of  the  nurses  of  Jupiter — they  make  a 
great  clamor,  in  order  to  drown  the  voice  of  their  God." 

"  Bravissimo  !  "  cried  Hamilton,  "  Is  it  not  a  pity,  messieurs, 
that  my  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  not  a  Frenchman  ?  He  is  almost 
clever  enough  to  be  one." 

"  If  he  would  drink  a  little  more,  he  would  be,"  cried  Chau- 
lieu, who  was  now  setting  us  all  a  glorious  example. 

"What  say  you,  Morton?"  exclaimed  Bolingbroke;  "must 
we  not  drink  these  gentlemen  under  the  table  for  the  honor  of 
our  country." 

"  A  challenge  !  a  challenge  !  "  cried  Chaulieu.  "  I  march 
first  to  the  field  !" 

"  Conquest  or  death  !  "  shouted  Bolingbroke.  And  the  rites 
of  Minerva  were  forsaken  for  those  of  Bacchus. 


DEVEREUX.  "  235 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  Court,  Courtiers,  and  a  King. 

I  THINK  it  was  the  second  day  after  this  "  feast  of  reason  " 
that  Lord  Bolingbroke  deemed  it  advisable  to  retire  to  Lyons 
till  his  plans  of  conduct  were  ripened  into  decision.  We  took 
an  affectionate  leave  of  each  other  ;  but  before  we  parted,  and 
after  he  had  discussed  his  own  projects  of  ambition,  we  talked 
a  little  upon  mine.  Although  I  was  a  Catholic  and  a  pupil  of 
Montreuil,  although  I  had  fled  from  England,  and  had  nothing 
to  expect  from  the  House  of  Hanover,  I  was  by  no  means 
favorably  disposed  towards  the  Chevalier  and  his  cause.  I 
wonder  if  this  avowal  will  seem  odd  to  Englishmen  of  the  next 
century.  To  Englishmen  of  the  present  one,  a  Roman  Catholic, 
and  a  lover  of  priestcraft  and  tyranny,  are  two  words  for  the 
same  thing  ;  as  if  we  could  not  murmur  at  tithes  and  taxes — 
insecurity  of  property — or  arbitrary  legislation,  just  as  sourly  as 
any  other  Christian  community.  No  !  I  never  loved  the  cause 
of  the  Stuarts — unfortunate,  and  therefore  interesting,  as  the 
Stuarts  were  ;  by  a  very  stupid,  and  yet  uneffaceable  confusion 
of  ideas,  I  confounded  it  with  the  cause  of  Montreuil,  and  I 
hated  the  latter  enough  to  dislike  the  former :  I  fancy  all  party 
principles  are  formed  much  in  the  same  manner.  I  frankly 
told  Bolingbroke  my  disinclination  to  the  Chevalier. 

"Between  ourselves  be  it  spoken,"  said  he,  "there. is  but 
little  to  induce  a  wise  man,  in  your  circumstances,  to  join  James 
the  Third.  I  would  advise  you  rather  to  take  advantage  of 
your  father's  reputation  at  the  French  court,  and  enter  into  the 
same  service  he  did.  Things  wear  a  dark  face  in  England  for 
you,  and  a  bright  one  everywhere  else." 

"  I  have  already,"  said  I,  "  in  my  own  mind,  perceived  and 
weighed  the  advantages  of  entering  into  the  service  of  Louis. 
But  he  is  old — he  cannot  live  long.  People  now  pay  court  to 
parties — not  to  the  king.  Which  party,  think  you,  is  the  best — 
that  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  think  not ;  she  is  a  cold  friend,  and  never  asks  favors 
of  Louis  for  any  of  her  family.  A  bold  game  might  be  played 
by  attaching  yourself  to  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans  (the  Duke's 
mother).  She  is  at  daggers-drawn  with  Maintenon,  it  is  true, 
and  she  is  a  violent,  haughty,  and  coarse  woman  ;  but  she  has 
wit,  talent,  strength  of  mind,  and  will  zealously  serve  any  per- 
son of  high  birth,  who  pays  her  respect.  But  she  can  do  noth- 
ing for  you  till  the  King's  death,  and  then  only  on  the  chance 


236  DEVEREUX. 

of  her  son's   power.     But — let   me   see — you   say  Fleuri,  the 
Bishop  of  Frejus,  is  to  introduce  you  to  Madame  de  Maintenon  ? " 

"  Yes ;  and  has  appointed  the  day  after  to-morrow  for  that 
purpose." 

"Well,  then,  make  close  friends  with  him — you  will  not  find 
it  difficult ;  he  has  a  delightful  address,  and  if  you  get  hold  of 
his  weak  points,  you  may  win  his  confidence.  Mark  me — Fleuri 
has  no  fatix-brilldnty  no  genius,  indeed,  of  very  prominent 
order ;  but  he  is  one  of  those  soft  and  smooth  minds,  which,  in 
a  crisis  like  the  present,  when  parties  are  contending,  and  princes 
wrangling,  always  slip  silently  and  unobtrusively  into  one  oftlie 
best  places.  Keep  in  with  Frejus — you  cannot  do  wrong  by 
it — although  you  must  remember  that  at  present  he  is  in  ill 
odor  with  the  King,  and  you  need  not  go  wath  hitn  twice  to  Ver- 
sailles. But,  above  all,  when  you  are  introduced  to  Louis,  do 
not  forget  that  you  cannot  please  him  better  than  by  appearing 
awe-stricken." 

Such  was  Bolingbroke's  parting  advice.  The  Bishop  of 
Frejus  carried  me  with  him  (on  the  morning  we  had  appointed) 
to  Versailles.  What  a  magnificent  work  of  royal  imagination 
is  that  palace  !  I  know  not  in  any  epic  a  grander  idea  than 
terming  the  avenues  which  lead  to  it  the  roads  "/t?  Spaiii,  to 
Holland,"  etc.  In  London,  they  would  have  been  the  roads  to 
Chelsea  and  Pentonville  ! 

As  we  were  driving  slowly  along  in  the  bishop's  carriage,  I 
had  ample  time  for  conversation  with  that  personage,  who  has 
since,  as  the  Cardinal  de  Fleuri,  risen  to  so  high  a  pitch  of 
power.  He  certainly  has  in  him  very  little  of  the  great  man  ; 
nor  do  I  know  any  where  so  striking  an  instance  of  this  truth — - 
that  in  that  game  of  honors  which  is  played  at  courts,  we  obtain 
success  less  by  our  talents  than  our  tempers.  He  laughed,  with 
a  graceful  turn  of  badinage,  at  the  political  peculiarities  of 
Madame  de  Balzac  :  and  said  that  it  was  not  for  the  uppermost 
party  to  feel  resentment  at  the  chafings  of  the  under  one.  Sliding 
from  this  topic,  he  then  questioned  me  as  to  the  gayeties  I  had 
witnessed.  I  gave  him  a  description  of  the  party  at  Boulain- 
villiers's.  He  seemed  much  interested  in  this,  and  showed  more 
shrewdness  than  I  should  have  given  him  credit  for,  in  discuss- 
ing the  various  characters  of  the  lileraii  of  the  day.  After 
some  general  conversation  on  works  of  fiction,  he  artfully  glided 
into  treating  on  those  of  statistics  and  politics,  and  1  then 
caught  a  sudden,  but  thorough,  insight  into  the  depths  of  his 
policy.  I  saw  that,  while  lie  affected  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
difficulties  and  puzzles  of  state,  he  lost  no  opportunity  of  gain- 


DEVEREUX.  237 

ing  every  particle  of  information  respecting  them  ;  and  that  he 
made  conversation,  in  which  he  v^'as  skilled,  a  vehicle  for 
acquiring  that  knowledge  which  he  had  not  the  force  of  mind 
to  create  from  iiis  own  intellect,  or  to  work  out  from  the  written 
labors  of  others.  If  this  made  him  a  superficial  statesman,  it 
made  him  a  prompt  one  ;  and  there  was  never  so  lucky  a 
minister  with  so  little  trouble  to  himself.* 

As  we  approaclied  the  end  of  our  destination,  we  talked  of 
the  King.  On  this  subject  he  was  jealously  cautious.  But  I 
gleaned  from  him,  despite  of  his  sagacity,  that  it  was  high  time 
to  make  all  use  of  one's  acquaintance  with  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  that  one  could  be  enabled  to  do  ;  and  that  it  was  so 
difficult  to  guess  the  exact  places  in  which  power  would  rest 
after  the  death  of  the  old  King,  that  supineness  and  silence 
made  at  present  the  most  profound  policy. 

As  we  alighted  from  the  carriage,  and  I  first  set  my  foot 
within  the  palace,  I  could  not  but  feel  involuntarily,  yet  power- 
fully, impressed  with  the  sense  of  the  spirit  of  the  place.  I  was 
in  the  precincts  of  that  mighty  court  that  had  gathered  into  one 
dazzling  focus  all  the  rays  of  genius  which  half  a  century  had 
emitted  ;  the  court  at  which  time  had  passed  at  once  from  the 
morn  of  civilization  into  its  full  noon  and  glory  ;  the  court  of 
Conde  and  Turenne — of  Villars  and  of  Tourville  ;  the  court 
where,  over  the  wit  of  Grammont,  the  profusion  of  Fouquet, 
the  fatal  genius  of  Louvois  (fatal  to  humanity  and  to  France), 
Love,  real. Love,  had  not  disdained  to  shed  its  pathos  and  its 
truth,  and  to  consecrate  the  hollow  pageantries  of  royal  pomp 
with  the  tenderness,  the  beauty,  and  the  repentance  of  La  Val- 
li^re.  Still  over  that  scene  hung  the  spells  of  a  genius  wliich, 
if  artificial  and  cold,  was  also  vast,  stately,  and  magnificent — 
a  genius  which  had  swelled  in  the  rich  music  of  Racine — which 
had  raised  the  nobler  spirit  and  the  freer  thought  of  Pierre 
CorneiIle,f  which  had  given  edge  to  the  polished  weapon  of 
Boi'leau — which  had  lavished  over  the  bright  page  of  Moiiere — 
Moliere,  more  wonderful  than  all — a  knowledge  of  the  humors 
and  the  hearts  of  men,  which  no  dramatist,  save  Shakspeare, 
has  surpassed.  Within  those  walls  still  glowed,  though  now 
waxing  faint  and  dim,  the  fame  of  that  monarch  who  had  en- 
joyed, at  least  till  his  later  day,  the  fortune  of  Augustus,  un- 
sullied by  the  crimes  of  Octavius.     Nine  times,  since  the  sun 

•  At  his  death  appeared  the  following  punning  epigram  : 
"  Floruit  sine  friictu  ; 
^^  Df floruit  sine  luctu." 
He  flowered  without  fniit,  and  faded  without  regret— Ed. 

+  Rigidly  speaking,  Corneille    belongs  to  a  period   earlier    than   that  of  Louis  XlV-t 
though  he  has  been  included  in  the  era  formed  by  that  reign. — Ep, 


838  DEVEREUX. 

of  that  monarch  rose,  had  the  Papal  Chair  received  a  new  occu- 
pant !  Six  sovereigns  had  reigned  over  the  Ottoman  hordes  ! 
The  fourth  emperor,  since  the  birth  of  the  same  era,  bore  sway 
over  Germany !  Five  czars,  from  Michael  Romanoff  to  the 
Great  Peter,  had  held,  over  their  enormous  territory,  the  pre- 
carious tenure  of  their  iron  power !  Six  kings  had  borne  the 
painful  cincture  of  the  English  crown  ;  *  two  of  those  kings  had 
been  fugitives  to  that  court — to  the  son  of  the  last  it  was  an 
asylum  at  that  moment. 

What  wonderful  changes  had  passed  over  the  face  of  Europe 
during  that  single  reign !  In  England  only,  what  a  vast  leap 
in  the  waste  of  events,  from  the  reign  of  the  first  Charles  to 
that  of  George  the  First !  I  still  lingered — I  still  gazed,  as 
these  thoughts,  linked  to  one  another  in  an  electric  cliain, 
flashed  over  me !  I  still  paused  on  the  threshold  of  those 
stately  halls  which  Nature  herself  had  been  conquered  lo  rear! 
Where,  through  the  whole  earth,  could  I  find  so  meet  a  symbol 
for  the  character  and  the  name  which  that  sovereign  would 
leave  to  posterity,  as  this  place  itself  afforded  ?  A  gorgeous 
monument  of  regal  state  raised  from  a  desert — crowded  alike 
with  empty  pageantries  and  illustrious  names — a  prodigy  of 
elaborate  artifice,  grand  in  its  whole  effect,  petty  in  its  small 
details  ;  a  solitary  oblat-ion  to  a  splendid  selfishness,  and  most 
remarkable  for  the  revenues  which  it  exhausted,  and  the 
poverty  by  which  it  is  surrounded  ! 

Fleuri,  with  his  usual  urbanity — an  urbanity  that,  on  a  great 
scale,  would  have  been  benevolence — had  hitherto  indulged 
me  in  my  emotions ;  he  now  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  and 
recalled  me  to  myself.  Before  I  could  apologize  for  my  ab- 
straction, the  bishop  was  accosted  by  an  old  man  of  evident 
rank,  but  of  a  countenance  more  strikingly  demonstrative  of 
the  little  cares  of  a  mere  courtier  than  any  I  ever  beheld. 
"What  news,  Monsieur  le  Marquis  ?"  said  Fleuri,  smiling. 

"  Oh  !  the  greatest  imaginable  !  the  king  talks  of  receiving 
the  Danish  minister  on  Thursday,  which,  you  know,  is  his  day 
of  doviestic  business  !  What  can  this  portend?  Besides,"  and 
here  the  speaker's  voice  lowered  into  a  whisper,  "I  am  told  by 
the  Due  de  la  Rochefoucault  that  the  King  intends,  out  of  all 
ordinary  rule  and  practice,  to  take  physic  to-morrow — ^I 
can't  believe  it — no,  I  positively  can't;  but  don't  let  this  go 
farther!  " 

"  Heaven  forbid  ! "   answered  Fleuri,  bowing,  and  the  cour- 

•  Besides <:roTnweIl ;  vix.,  Ghsirles  T.,  Charles  11.,  James  II.,  William  and  Mary,  Ann*. 
Veor^e  X. 


liEVEREUX.  239 

tier  passed  on  to  whisper  his  intelligence  to  others.  "  Who's 
that  gentleman,"  I  asked. 

"The  Marquis  de  Dangeau,"  answered  Fleuri ;  "a  noble- 
man of  great  quality,  who  keeps  a  diary  of  all  the  King  says  and 
does.  It  will  perhaps  be  a  posthumous  publication,  and  will 
show  the  world  of  what  importance  nothings  can  be  made.  I 
dare  say,  Count,  you  have  already,  in  England,  seen  enough  of 
a  court  to  know  that  there  are  some  people  who  are  as  human 
echoes,  and  have  no  existence  except  in  the  noise  occasioned 
by  another." 

I  took  care  that  my  answer  should  not  be  a  witticism,  lest 
Fleuri  should  think  I  was  attempting  to  rival  him  ;  and  so  we 
passed  on  in  an  excellent  humor  with  each  other. 

We  mounted  the  grand  staircase,  and  came  to  an  ante-cham- 
ber, which,  though  costly  and  rich,  was  not  remarkably  con- 
-spicuous  for  splendor.  Here  the  bishop  requested  me  to  wait 
for  a  moment.  Accordingly,  I  amused  myself  with  looking 
over  some  engravings  of  different  saints.  Meanwhile,  my  com- 
panion passed  through  another  door,  and  I  was  alone. 

After  an  absence  of  nearly  ten  minutes,  he  returned.  "  Ma- 
dame de  Maintenon,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "is  but  poorly  to- 
day. However,  she  has  eagerly  consented  to  see  you — follow 
me  !  " 

So  saying,  the  ecclesiastical  courtier  passed  on,  with  myself 
at  his  heels.  We  came  to  the  door  of  a  second  cliamber,  at 
which  Fleuri  scraped  gently.  We  were  admitted,  and  found 
therein  three  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  reading,  a  second  laugh- 
ing, and  a  third  yawning,  and  entered  into  another  chamber, 
where,  alone,  and  seated  by  the  window,  in  a  large  chair,  with 
one  foot  on  a  stool,  in  an  attitude  that  rather  reminded  me  of 
my  mother,  and  which  seems  to  me  a  favorite  position  with  all 
devotees,  we  found  an  old  woman  without  rouge,  plainly  dressed, 
with  spectacles  on  her  nose^  and  a  large  book  on  a  little  table 
before  her.  With  a  most  profound  salutation,  Frejus  approached, 
and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  said, — 

"  Will  Madame  suffer  me  to  present  to  her  the  Count  Dever- 
eux?" 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  with  an  air  of  great  meekness  and 
humility,  bowed  a  return  to  the  salutation.  "  The  son  of  Ma- 
dame la  Mar^chale  de  Devereux  will  always  be  most  welcome  to 
me  !  "  Then,  turning  towards  us,  she  pointed  to  two  stools, 
and,  while  we  were  seating  ourselves,  said — 

"And  how  did  you  leave  my  excellent  friend  ?" 

"  When,  Madame,  I  last  saw  my  mother,  which  is  now  nearlv 


24° 


DEVEftEU3i. 


a  year  ago,  she  was  in  health,  and  consoling  herself  for  the  ad- 
vance of  years  by  that  tendency  to  wean  the  thoughts  from  tliis 
world  which  (in  her  own  language)  is  the  divinest  comfort  of 
old  age ! " 

''Admirable  woman  !  "  said  Madame  de  Maintenon,  casting 
down  her  eyes;  "such  are,  indeed,  the  sentiments  in  which  I 
recognize  the  Marechale.  And  how  does  her  beauty  wear? 
Those  golden  locks,  and  blue  eyes,  and  that  snowy  skin,  are  not 
yet,  I  suppose,  wholly  changed  for  an  adequate  compensation 
of  the  beauties  within  !" 

*'Tirae,  Madame,  has  been  gentle  with  her  ;  and  I  have  often 
thought,  though  never,  perhaps,  more  strongly  than  at  this  mo- 
ment, that  there  is  in  those  divine  studies,  which  bring  calm  and 
light  to  the  mind,  something  which  preserves  and  embalms,  as 
it  were,  the  beauty  of  the  body." 

A  faint  blush  passed  over  the  face  of  the  devotee.  No,  no— 
not  even  at  eighty  years  of  age  is  a  compliment  to  a  woman's 
beauty  misplaced  !  There  was  a  slight  pause.  I  thought  that 
respect  forbade  me  to  break  it. 

"  His  Majesty,"  said  the  bishop,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is 
sensible  that  he  encroaches  a  little,  and  does  it  with  consequent 
reverence — "  his  Majesty,  I  hope,  is  well." 

"God  be  thanked,  yes,  as  well  as  we  can  expect.  It  is  now 
nearly  the  hour  in  which  his  Majesty  awaits  your  personal  in- 
quiries." 

Fleuri  bowed  as  he  answered — 

"The  King  then,  will  receive  us  to-day?  My  young  compan- 
ion is  very  desirous  to  see  the  greatest  monarch,  and  conse- 
quently the  greatest  man,  of  the  age." 

"The  desire  is  natural,"  said  Madame  de  Maintenon  :  and 
then,  turning  to  me,  she  asked  if  I  had  yet  seen  King  James  the 
Third. 

I  took  care,  in  my  answer,  to  express  that  even  if  I  had  re- 
solved to  make  that  stay  in  Paris  which  allowed  me  to  pay  my 
respects  to  him  at  all,  I  should  have  deemed  that  both  duty  and 
inclination  led  me,  in  the  first  instance,  to  offer  my  homage  to 
one  who  was  both  the  benefactor  of  my  father,  and  the  monarch 
whose  realms  afforded  me  protection. 

"You  have  not,  then,"  said  Madame  de  Maintenon,  "decided 
on  the  length  of  your  stay  in  France?" 

"No,"  said  I — and  my  answer  was  regulated  by  my  desire  to 
see  how  far  I  might  rely  on  the  services  of  one  who  expressed 
herself  so  warm  a  friend  of  that  excellent  woman,  Madame  la 
Marechale—"  No,  Madame.     France  is  the  country  of  ray  birth, 


DEVEREUX.  441 

if  England  is  that  of  my  parentage  ;  and  could  I  hope  for  some 
portion  of  that  royal  favor  wliich  my  father  enjoyed,  I  would 
rather  claim  it  as  the  home  of  my  hopes  than  the  refuge  of  my 
exile.     But" — and  I  stopped  short  purposel)^ 

The  old  lady  looked  at  me  very  earnestly  through  her  specta- 
cles for  one  moment,  and  then,  hemming  twice  with  a  little  em- 
barrassment, again  remarked  to  the  bishop,  that  the  time  for 
seeing  the  King  was  nearly  arrived.  Fleuri,  whose  policy  at  that 
period  was  very  like  that  of  the  concealed  queen,  and  who  was, 
besides,  far  from  desirous  of  introducing  any  new  claimants  on 
Madame  de  Maintenon's  official  favor,  though  hemiglit  not  ob- 
ject to  introduce  them  to  her  private  friendship,  was  not  slow 
in  taking  the  hint.  He  rose,  and  I  was  forced  to  follow  his 
example. 

Madame  de  Mainbenon  thought  she  might  safely  indulge  in 
a  little  cordiality  when  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  leaving  her, 
and  accordingly.blest  me  and  gave  me  her  hand,  which  I  kissed 
very  devoutly.  An  extremely  pretty  hand  it  was,  too,  notwith- 
standing the  good  queen's  age.  We  then  retired,  and,  repassing 
the  three  ladies  who  were  now  all  yawning,  repaired  to  the  King's 
apartments. 

"What  think  you  of  Madame ?"  asked  Fleuri. 

"What  can  I  think  of  her,"  said  I,  cautiously,  "but  that  great- 
ness seems  in  her  to  take  its  noblest  form — that  of  simplicity  ? " 

"  True,"  rejoined  Fleuri,  "  never  was  there  so  meek  a  mind 
joined  to  so  lowly  a  carriage  ?  Do  you  remark  any  trace  of 
former  beauty?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  there  is  much  that  is  soft  in  her  countenance, 
and  much  that  is  still  regular  in  her  features ;  but  what  struck 
me  most  was  the  pensive  and  even  sad  tranquillity  that  rests 
upon  her  face  when  she  is  silent." 

"The  expression  betrays  the  mind,"  answered  Fleuri;  "and 
the  curse  of  the  great  is  ennm." 

"  Of  the  great  in  station,"  said  I,  "  but  not  necessarily  of  the 
great  in  mind.  I  have  heard  that  the  Bishop  of  Frejus,:  not- 
withstanding his  rank  and  celebrity,  employs  every  hour  to 
the  advantage  of  others,  and  consequently  without  tedium  to 
himself." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Fleuri,  smiling. gently,  and  patting  my  cheek  : 
"  see,  now,  if  the  air  of  palaces  is  not  absolutely  prolific  of 
pretty  speeches."  And,  before  I  could  answer,  we  were  in  the 
apartments  of  the  King. 

Leaving  me  awhile  to  cool  my  heels  in  a  gallery,  filled  with 
the  butterflies  who  bask  in  the  royal  sunshine,  Frejus  then  dis- 


i^i  DEVEREUX. 

appeared  among  the  crowd  ;  he  was  scarcely  gone  when  1  was 
agreeably  surprised  by  seeing  Count  Hamilton  approach  to- 
wards me. 

"  Morf  diable .' "  said  he,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  ^  V  Anglaise; 
"  I  am  really  delighted  to  see  any  one  here  who  does  not  insult 
my  sins  with  his  superior  excellence.  Eh,  now,  look  round 
this  apartment  for  a  moment  !  Whether  would  you  believe 
yourself  at  the  court  of  a  great  king,  or  the  levee  of  a  Roman 
cardinal  ?  Whom  see  you  chiefly?  Gallant  soldiers,  with  worn 
brows  and  glittering  weeds  ;  wise  statesmen,  with  ruin  to  Austria 
and  defiance  to  Rome  in  every  wrinkle  ;  gay  nobles  in  costly 
robes,  and  with  the  bearing  that  so  nicely  teaches  mirth  to  be 
dignified  and  dignity  to  be  merry  ?  No  !  cassock  and  hat, 
rosary  and  gown,  decking  sly,  demure,  hypocritical  faces,  flit, 
and  stalk,  and  sadden  round  us.  It  seems  to  me,"  continued 
the  witty  Count,  in  a  lower  whisper,  "as  if  the  old  King,  having 
fairly  buried  his  glory  at  Ramilies  and  Blenheim,  had  sum- 
moned all  these  good  gentry  to  sing  psalms  over  it !  But  are 
you  waiting  for  a  private  audience  ? " 

"Yes,  under  the  auspices  of  the  Bishop  of  Frejus." 
"  You  might  have  chosen  a  better  guide — the  King  has  been 
too  much  teased  about  him,"  rejoined  Hamilton,  "and  now 
that  we  are  talking  of  him,  I  will  show  you  a  singular  instance 
of  what  good  manners  can  do  at  court,  in  preference  to  good 
abilities.  You  observe  yon  quiet,  modest-looking  man,  with  a 
sensible  countenance,  and  a  clerical  garb  ;  you  observe  how  he 
edges  away  when  any  one  approaches  to  accost  him  ;  and  how, 
irom  his  extreme  dis-esteem  of  himself,  he  seems  to  inspire 
every  one  with  the  same  sentiment.  Well,  that  man  is  a  name- 
sake of  Fleuri's,  the  Prior  of  Argenteuil ;  he  has  come  here,  I 
suppose,  for  some  particular  and  temporary  purpose,  since,  in 
reality,  he  has  left  the  court.  Well,  that  worthy  priest — do  re- 
mark his  bow  ;  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  awkward  ? — is  one 
of  the  most  learned  divines  that  the  church  can  boast  of  ;  he  is 
as  immeasurably  superior  to  the  smooth-faced  Bishop  of  Frejus 
as  Louis  the  Fourteenth  is  to  my  old  friend  Charles  the  Second. 
He  has  had  equal  opportunities  with  the  said  bishop  ;  been 
preceptor  to  the  princes  of  Conti,  and  the  Count  de  Verman- 
dois  ;  and  yet,  I. will  wager  that  he  lives  and  dies  a  tutor — a 
bookworm — and  a  prior  ;  while  t'other  Fleuri,  without  a  par- 
ticle of  merit,  but  of  the  most  superficial  order,  governs  already 
kings  through  their  mistresses,  kingdoms  through  the  kings,  and 
may,  for  aught  I  know,  expand  into  a  prime  minister,  and  ripen 
into  a  cardinal." 


DEVEREtJX.  243 

"Nay,"  said  I,  smiling,  "  there  is  little  chance  of  so  exalted 
a  lot  for  the  worthy  bishop." 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Hamilton,  "I  am  an  old  courtier, 
and  look  steadily  on  the  game  I  no  longer  play.  Suppleness, 
united  with  art,  may  do  anything  in  a  court  like  this  ;  and  the 
smooth  and  unelevated  craft  of  a  Fleuri  may  win  even  to  the 
same  height  as  the  deep  wiles  of  the  glittering  Mazarin,  or  the 
superb  genius  of  the  imperious  Richelieu." 

"  Hist  ! "  said  I,  "  the  bishop  has  reappeared.  Who  is  that 
-old  priest,  witli  a  fine  countenance,  and  an  address  that  will,  at 
least,  please  you  better  than  that  of  the  Prior  of  Argenteuil,  who 
has  just  stopped  our  episcopal  courtier?" 

"  What !  do  you  not  know  ?  It  is  the  most  celebrated  preacher 
of  the  day — the  great  Massillon.  It  is  said  that  that  handsome 
person  goes  a  great  way  towards  winning  converts  among  the 
court  ladies  ;  it  is  certain,  at  least,  that  when  Massillon  first 
entered  the  profession,  he  was  to  the  soul  something  like  the 
spear  of  Achilles  to  the  body ;  and  though  very  efficacious  in 
healing  the  wounds  of  conscience,  was  equally  ready,  in  the 
first  instance,  to  inflict  them." 

**  Ah  ! "  said  I,  "  see  the  malice  of  wit ;  and  see,  above  all, 
how  much  more  ready  one  is  to  mention  a  man's  frailties  than 
to  enlarge  upon  his  virtues." 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  Hamilton  coolly,  and  patting  his 
snuff-box — "  to  be  sure,  we  old  people  like  history  better  than 
fiction  ;  and  frailty  is  certain,  while  virtue  is  always  doubtful." 

"  Don't  judge  of  all  people,"  said  I,  "  by  your  experience 
among  the  courtiers  of  Charles  the  Second." 

"  Right,"  said  Hamilton.  "  Providence  never  assembled  so 
many  rascals  together  before,  without  hanging  them.  And  he 
Avould  indeed  be  a  bad  judge  of  human  nature  wlio  estimated 
the  characters  of  men  in  general  by  the  heroes  of  Newgate  and 
the  victims  of  Tyburn.     Butyour  bishop  approaches.     Adieu!" 

"What!"  said  Fleuri,  joining  me  and  saluting  Hamilton, 
who  had  just  turned  to  depart,  "what,  Count  Antoine  !  Does 
anything  but  whim  bring  you  here  to-day  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Hamilton  ;  "  I  am  only  here  for  the  same 
purpose  as  the  poor  go  to  the  temples  of  Caitan — to  inJiale  the 
steam  of  those ^ood  things  which  I  see  the  priests  devour." 

"  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  the  good-natured  bishop,  not  in 
the  least  disconcerted  ;  and  Count  Hamilton,  congratulating 
himself  on  his  bon  mot,  turned  away. 

"  I  have  spoken  to  his  Most  Christian  Majesty,"  said  the 
bishop  :  "  he  is  willing,  as  he  before  ordained,  to  admit  you  to 


244  DtVEREUX. 

his  presence.  The  Due  de  Maine  is  with  the  King,  as  also 
some  other  members  of  the  royal  family  ;  but  you  will  consider 
this  a  private  audience." 

I  expressed  my  gratitude — we  moved  on — the  doors  of  an 
apartment  were  thrown  open — and  I  saw  myself  in  the  presence 
of  Louis  XIV. 

The  room  was  partially  darkened.  In  the  centre  of  it,  on  a 
large  sofa,  reclined  the  King  ;  he  was  dressed  (although  this,  if 
I  may  so  speak,  I  rather  remembered  than  noted)  in  a  coat  of 
black  velvet,  slightly  embroidered  ;  his  vest  was  of  white  satin  ; 
he  wore  no  jewels  nor  orders,  for  it  was  only  on  grand  or  gala 
days  that  he  displayed  personal  pomp.  At  some  little  distance 
from  him  stood  three  members  of  the  royal  family — them  I 
never  regarded — all  my  attention  was  bent  upon  the  King.  My 
temperament  is  not  that  on  which  greatness,  or  indeed  any  ex- 
ternal circumstances,  makes  much  impression,  but,  as  following, 
at  a  little  distance,  the  Bishop  of  Frejus,  I  approached  the 
royal  person,  I  must  confess  that  Bolingbroke  had  scarcely 
need  to  have  cautioned  me  not  to  appear  too  self-possessed. 
Perhaps,  had  I  seen  that  great  monarch  in  his  beaux  jours — in 
the  plenitude  of  his  power — his  glory — the  dazzling  and  meri- 
dian splendor  of  his  person,  his  court,  and  his  renown,  pride 
might  have  made  me  more  on  my  guard  against  too  deep,  or  at 
least  too  apparent,  an  impression  ;  but  the  many  reverses  of 
that  magnificent  sovereign — reverses  in  which  he  had  shown 
himself  more  great  than  in  all  his  previous  triumphs  and  earlier 
successes  ;  his  age — his  infirmities — the  very  clouds  round  the 
setting  sun — the  very  howls  of  joy  at  the  expiring  lion — all  were 
calculated,  in  my  mind,  to  deepen  respect  into  reverence,  and 
tincture  reverence  itself  with  awe.  I  saw  before  me  not  only 
the  majesty  of  Louis-le-Grand,  but  that  of  misfortune,  of  weak- 
ness, of  infirmity,  and  of  age  ;  and  I  forgot  at  once,  in  that  re- 
flection, what  otherwise  would  have  blunted  my  sentiments  of 
deference,  viz.,  the  crimes  of  his  ministers,  and  the  exactions  of 
his  reign  !  Endeavoring  to  collect  my  mind  from  an  embarrass- 
ment which  surprised  myself,  I  lifted  my  eyes  towards  the  King, 
and  saw  a  countenance  where  the  trace  of  the  superb  beauty, 
for  which  his  manhood  had  been  celebrated,  still  lingered, 
broken,  not  destroyed,  and  borrowing  a  dignity  even  more  im- 
posing from  the  marks  of  encroaching  years,  and  from  the  evi- 
dent exhaustion  of  suffering  and  disease. 

Fleuri  said,  in  a  low  tone,  something  which  my  ear  did  not 
catch.  There  was  a  pause — only  a  moment's  pause  ;  and  then, 
in  a  voice,  the  music  of  which  I  had  hitherto  deemed  exagger. 


devereux.  ,«4S 

ated,  the  King  spoke;  and  in  that  voice  there  was  something  so 
kind  and  encouraging  that  I  felt  reassured  at  once.  Perluips 
its  tone  was  not  the  least  conciliating  from  the  evident  effect 
which  the  royal  presence  had  produced  upon  me. 

"  You  have  given  us,  Count  Devereux,"  said  the  King,  "  a 
pleasure  which  we  are  glad,  in  person,  to  acknowledge  to  you. 
And  it  has  seemed  to  us  fitting  that  the  country  in  which  your 
brave  father  acquired  his  fame  should  also  be  the  asylum  of 
his  son." 

*'  Sire,"  answered  I,  *'  Sire,  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  that 
country  is  not  henceforth  my  own  ;  and,  in  inheriting  my 
father's  name,  I  inherit  also  his  gratitude  and  his  ambition." 

"  It  is  well  said,  sir,"  said  the  King  ;  and  I  once  more  raised 
my  eyes,  and  perceived  that  his  were  bent  upon  me.  "  It  is  well 
said,"  he  repeated,  after  a  short  pause  ;  "and  in  granting  to  you 
this  audience,  we  were  not  unwilling  to  hope  that  you  were  de- 
sirous to  attach  yourself  to  our  court.  The  times  do  not  require  " 
(here  I  thought  the  old  King's  voice  was  not  quite  so  firm  as 
before)  "  the  manifestation  of  your  zeal  in  the  same  career  as 
that  in  which  your  father  gained  laurels  to  France  and  to 
himself.  But  we  will  not  neglect  to  find  employment  for  your 
abilities,  if  not  for  your  sword." 

"  That  sword  which  was  given  to  me,  Sire,"  said  I,  "by  your 
Majesty,  shall  be  ever  drawn  (against  all  nations  but  one)  at 
your  command  ;  and,  in  being  your  Majesty's  petitioner  for 
future  favors,  I  only  seek  some  channel  through  which  to 
evince  my  gratitude  for  the  past." 

"  We  do  not  doubt,"  said  Louis,  "  that  v/hateverbe  the  num- 
ber of  the  ungrateful  we  may  make  by  testifying  our  good  plea- 
sure on  your  behalf,  ^<??^  will  not  be  among  the  number."  The 
king  here  made  a  slight,  but  courteous  inclination,  and  turned 
round.  The  observant  Bishop  of  Fr^jus,  who  had  retired  to  a 
little  distance,  and  who  knew  that  the  King  never  liked  talking 
more  than  he  could  help  it,  gave  me  a  signal.  I  obeyed,  and 
backed,  with  all  due  deference,  out  of  the  royal  presence. 

So  closed  my  interview  with  Louis  XIV.  Although  his 
Majesty  did  not  indulge  in  prolixity,  I  spoke  of  him  for  a  long 
time  afterwards  as  the  most  eloquent  of  men.  Believe  me,  there 
is  no  orator  like  a  king  ;  one  word  from  a  royal  mouth  stirs  the 
heart  more  than  Demosthenes  could  have  done.  There  was  a 
deep  moral  in  that  custom  of  the  ancients,  by  which  the  God- 
dess of  Persuasion  was  always  represented  with  a  diadem  onhef 
fiead. 


246  t>EVEREt)X. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Reflections — A  Soiree — The  appearance  of  one  important  in  the  Historjf"— « 
A  Conversation  with  Madame  de  Balzac  highly  satisfactory  and  cheer- 
ing— A  Rencontre  with  a  curious  old  Soldier — The  extinction  of  a  once 
great  Luminary. 

I  HAD  now  been  several  weeks  at  Paris ;  I  had  neither  eagerly 
sought,  nor  sedulously  avoided,  its  gayeties.  It  is  not  that  one 
violent  sorrow  leaves  us  without  power  of  enjoyment' — it  only 
lessens  the  power,  and  deadens  the  enjoyment ;  it  does  not  take 
away  from  us  the  objects  of  life — it  only  forestalls  the  more 
indifferent  calmness  of  age.  The  blood  no  longer  flows  in  an 
irregular,  but  delicious,  course  of  vivid  and  wild  emotion  ;  the 
step  no  longer  spurns  the  earth  ;  nor  does  the  ambition  wander, 
insatiable,  yet  undefined,  over  the  million  paths  of  existence  ; 
but  we  lose  not  our  old  capacities — they  are  quieted,  not 
extinct.  The  heart  can  never  utterly  and  long  be  dormant ; 
trifles  may  not  charm  it  any  more,  nor  levities  delight ;  but  its 
pulse  has  not  yet  ceased  to  beat.  We  survey  the  scene  that 
moves  around,  with  a  gaze  no  longer  distracted  by  every  hope 
that  flutters  by  ;  and  it  is  therefore  that  we  find  ourselves  more 
calculated  than  before  for  the  graver  occupations  of  our  race. 
The  overflowing  temperament  is  checked  to  its  proper  level, 
the  ambition  bounded  to  its  prudent  and  lawful  goal.  The 
earth  is  no  longer  so  green,  nor  the  heaven  so  blue,  nor  the 
fancy  that  stirs  within  us  so  rich  in  its  creations ;  but  we  look 
more  narrowly  on  the  living  crowd,  and  more  rationally  on  the 
aims  of  men.  The  misfortune  which  has  changed  us  has  only 
adapted  us  the  better  to  a  climate  in  which  misfortune  is  a 
portion  of  the  air.  The  grief,  that  has  thralled  our  spirit  to  a 
more  narrow  and  dark  cell,  has  also  been  a  chain  that  has 
linked  us  to  mankind  with  a  strength  of  which  we  dreamt  not 
in  the  day  of  a  wilder  freedom  and  more  luxuriant  aspirings. 
In  later  life,  a  new  spirit,  partaking  of  that  which  was  our  ear- 
liest, returns  to  us.  The  solitude  which  delighted  us  in  youth, 
but  which,  when  the  thoughts  that  make  solitude  a  fairy-land 
are  darkened  by  affliction,  becomes  a  fearful  and  sombre  void, 
resumes  its  old  spell,  as  the  more  morbid  and  urgent  memory 
of  that  affliction  crumbles  away  by  time.  Content  is  a  hermit ; 
but  so  also  is  Apathy.  Youth  love  the  solitary  couch,  which  it 
surrounds  with  dreams.  Age,  or  Experience  (which  is  the 
mind's  age)  loves  the  same  couch  for  the  rest  which  it  affords ; 
but  the  wide  interval  between  is  that  of  exertion,  of  labor,  and 


DEVEREUX.  247 

labor  among"men.  The  woe  which  makes  our ^^a//i  less  social, 
often  makes  our  habits  more  so.  The  thoughts,  which  in  cahn 
would  have  shunned  the  world,  are  driven  upon  it  by  the  tem- 
pest, even  as  the  birds  which  forsake  the  habitable  land  can,  so 
long  as  the  wind  sleeps,  and  the  thunder  rests  within  its  cloud, 
become  the  constant  and  solitary  brooders  over  the  waste  sea : 
but  the  moment  the  storm  awakes,  and  the  blast  pursues  them^ 
they  fly,  by  an  overpowering  instinct,  to  some  wandering  bark, 
some  vestige  of  human  and  social  life ;  and  exchange,  even  for 
danger  from  the  hands  of  men,  the  desert  of  an  angry  Heaven, 
and  the  solitude  of  a  storm. 

I  heard  no  more,  either  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  or  the  King. 
Meanwhile,  my  flight  and  friendship  with  Lord  Bolingbroke 
had  given  me  a  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  the  exiled  prince, 
which  I  should  not  otherwise  have  enjoyed  ;  and  I  was  honored 
by  very  flattering  overtures  to  enter  actively  intohisservice.  I 
have  before  said  that  I  felt  no  enthusiasm  in  his  cause,  and  1  was 
far  from  feeling  it  for  his  person.  My  ambition  rather  directed 
its  hopes  towards  a  career  in  the  service  of  France.  France 
was  the  country  of  my  birth,  and  the  country  of  my  father's  fame, 
There  no  withering  remembrances  awaited  me — no  private  re- 
grets were  associated  with  its  scenes — and  no  public  penalties  with 
its  political  institutions.  And,  although  I  had  not  yet  received 
any  token  of  Louis's  remembrance,  in  the  ordinary  routine  of 
court  favors,  expectation  as  yet  would  have  been  premature  ;  be- 
sides, his  royal  fidelity  to  his  word  was  proverbial ;  and,  sooner  or 
later,  I  indulged  the  hope  to  profit  by  the  sort  of  promise  he  had 
insinuated  to  me.  I  declined,  therefore,  with  all  due  respect, 
the  offers  of  the  Chevalier,  and  continued  to  live  the  life  of  idle- 
ness and  expectation,  until  Lord  Bolingbroke  returned  to  Paris, 
and  accepted  the  office  of  secretary  of  state  in  the  service  of  the 
Chevalier.  As  he  has  publicly  declared  his  reasons,  in  this  step, 
I  do  not  mean  to  favor  the  world  with  his  private  conversations 
on  the  same  subject. 

A  day  or  two  after  his  return,  I  went  with  him  to  a  party 
given  by  a  member  of  the  royal  family.  The  first  person  by 
whom  we  were  accosted — and  I  rejoiced  at  it,  for  we  could  not 
have  been  accosted  by  a  more  amusing  one — was  Count  Anthony 
Hamilton. 

"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Bolingbroke,"  said  he,  sauntering  up  to  us  ; 
'*  how  are  you  ? — delighted  to  see  you  again.  Do  look  at  Madame 
la  Duchesse  d'Orleans  ?  Saw  you  ever  such  a  creature  ? 
Whither  are  you  moving,  my  lord  ?  Ah  !  see  him,  Count,  see  him, 
gliding  off  to  that   pretty  duchess,  of   course  ;  well,  he   has  a 


248  DEVERKUX. 

beautiful  bow,  it  must  be  owned — why,  you  are  not  going  too? — 
what  would  the  world  say  if  Count  Anthony  Hamilton  were  seen 
left  to  himself?  No,  no,  come  and  sit  down  by  Madame  de 
Cornuel — she  longs  to  be  introduced  to  you,  and  is  one  of  the 
wittiest  women  in  Europe." 

"  With  all  my  heart !  provided  she  employs  her  wit  ill  natured- 
ly,  and  uses  it  in  ridiculing  other  people,  not  praising  herself," 

"  Oh  !  nobody  can  be  more  satirical ;  indeed,  what  difference 
is  there  between  wit  and  satire  ?     Come,  Count !  " 

And  Hamilton  introduced  me  forthwith  to  Madame  de  Cor- 
nuel. She  received  me  very  politely  ;  and,  turning  to  two  or  three 
people  who  formed  the  circle  round  her,  said,  with  the  greatest 
composure,  "  Messieurs,  oblige  me  by  seeking  some  other  object 
of  attraction  ;  I  wish  to  have  a  private  conference  with  my 
new  friend." 

"  I  may  stay,"  said  Hamilton. 

"  Ah  !  certainly  ;  you  are  never  in  the  way." 

*'  In  that  respect,  Madame,"  said  Hamilton,  takingsnuff,  and 
bowing  very  low,  "  in  that  respect  I  must  strongly  remind  you 
of  your  excellent  husband." 

"  Fie  !  "  cried  Madame  de  Cornnel ;  then,  turning  to  me,  she 
said,  "Ah!  Monsieur  if  you  cou/dh3.ve  come  to  Paris  some 
years  ago,  you  would  have  been  enchanted  with  us — we  are  sadly 
changed.  Imagine  the  fine  old  King,  thinking  it  wicked,  not  to 
hear  plays,  but  to  hearp/ayers  act  them,  and  so  makingthe  royal 
family  a  company  of  comedians.  Mon  Dieu!  how  villainously 
they  perform  !  but  do  you  know  why  I  wished  to  be  introduced 
to  you  ?" 

"  Yes  !  in  order  to  have  a  new  listener  ;  old  listeners  must  be 
almost  as  tedious  as  old  news." 

"  Very  shrewdly  said,  and  not  far  from  the  truth.  The  fact  is, 
that  I  wanted  to  talk  about  all  these  fine  people  present,  to  some 
one  for  whose  earmy  anecdotes  would  have  the  charm  of  novelty. 
Let  ns  begin  with  Louis  Armand,  Prince  of  Conti — you  see  him?" 

"  What,  that  short-sighted,  stout,  and  rather  handsome  man, 
with  a  cast  of  countenance  somewhat  like  the  pictures  oi  Henri 
Quaire,  who  is  laughing  so  merrily?" 

"6?  del!  how  droll !  No,  that  handsome  man  is  no  less  a 
person  than  the  Due  dOrUans.  You  see  a  little  ugly  thing,  like 
an  anatomized  ape — there,  see — hehasjust  thrown  down  achair, 
and,  in  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  has  almost  fallen  over  the  Dutch 
ambassadress — that  is  Louis  Armand,  Prince  of  Conti.  Do 
you  know  what  the  Due  d'Orleans  said  to  him  the  other  day? 
'  Mofi  don  ami,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  prince's  limbs — (did  you 


DEVEREUX.  249 

ever  see  such  limbs  out  of  a  menagerie,  by-the-by  ?) — '  Mon  ban 
ami,  it  is  a  fine  thing  for  you  that  the  Psahuist  has  assured  us 
"  that  tlie  Lord  delighteth  not  in  any  man's  legs.'"  Nay,  don't 
laugh,  it  is  quite  true  !" 

It  was  now  for  Count  Hamilton  to  lake  up  the  ball  of  satire  ; 
he  was  [not  a  whit  more  merciful  than  the  kind  Madame  deCor- 
nuel.  "  The  Prince,"  said  he,  "has  so  exquisite  an  awkward- 
ness, that,  whenever  the  King  hears  a  noise,  and  inquires  the 
cause,  the  invariable  answer  is,  that  'the  Prince  of  Conti  has 
just  tumbled  down  !'  But,  tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  Madame 
d'Aumont?  She  is  in  the  English  head-dress,  and  looks  tttste 
a  la  mort ." 

"She  is  rather  pretty,  to  my  taste." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Madame  de  Cornuel,  interrupting  the  gentle 
Antoine — (it  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  how  strenuously  each 
of  them  tried  to  talk  more  scandal  than  the  other),  "yes,  she  is 
thought  very  pretty ;  but  I  think  her  very  like  a  fricandeau — 
white,  soft,  and  insipid.  She  is  always  in  tears,"  added  the  good- 
natured  Cornuel,  "  after  her  prayers,  both  at  morning  and  even- 
ing. I  asked  why  ;  and  she  ansvvered,  pretty  simpleton,  that 
she  was  always  forced  to  pray  to  be  made  good,  and  she  feared 
Heaven  would  take  her  at  her  word  !  However,  she  has  many 
worshippers,  and  they  call  her  the  evening  star." 

"They  should  rather  call  her  the  Hyades  !  "  said  Hamilton, 
"  if  it  be  true  that  she  sheds  tears  every  morning  and  night,  and 
her  rising  and  setting  are  thus  always  attended  by  rain." 

"  Bravo,  Count  Antoine  !  she  shall  be  so  called  in  future," 
said  Madaiue  de  Cornuel.  "  But  now,  Morisieur  Devereux,  turn 
your  eyes  to  that  hideous  old  woman." 

"What!  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans?" 

"  The  same.  She  is  in  full  dress  to-night ;  but  in  the  day- 
time you  generally  see  her  in  a  riding-habit  and  a  man's  wig ; 
she  is — " 

"Hist !"  interrupted  Hamilton  "do  you  not  tremble  to  think 
what  she  would  do  if  she  overheard  you?  she  is  such  a  terrible 
ereature  at  fighting  !  You  have  no  conception,  Count,  what  an 
arm  she  has.  She  know  her  ugliness,  and  laughs  at  it,  as  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  does.  The  king  took  her  hand  one  day, 
and  said,  smiling,  '  What  could  Nature  have  meant  when  she 
gave  this  hand  to  a  German  princess  instead  of  a  Dutch  peasant  ?' 
'Sire,'  said  the  Duchesse,  very  gravely,  'Nature  gave  this  hand 
to  a  German  princess  for  the  purpose  of  boxing  the  ears  of  her 
ladies  in  waiting  ! '  " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  said  Madame  de  Cornuel;  "one  is  never 


25© 


DEVEREUX. 


at  a  loss  for  jokes  upon  a  woman  who  eats  salads  au  lard,  and 
declares  that,  whenever  she  is  unhappy,  her  only  consolation 
is  ham  and  sausages  !  Her  son  treats  her  with  the  greatest 
respect,  and  consults  her  in  all  his  amours,  for  which  she  pro- 
fesses the  greatest  horror,  and  which  she  retails  to  her  cor- 
respondents all  over  the  world,  in  letters  as  long  as  her  pedigree. 
But  you  are  looking  at  her  son,  is  he  not  of  a  good  mien  ?" 

"  Yes,  pretty  well ;  but  does  not  exhibit  to  advantage  by  the 
side  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  with  whom  he  is  now  talking.  Pray, 
who  is  the  third  personage  that  has  just  joined  them  ?" 

"Oh,  the  wretch!  it  is  the  Abbe  Dubois;  a  living  proof  of 
the  folly  of  the  French  proverb,  which  says  that  Mercurys 
should  not  be  made  du  bois.  Never  was  there  a  Mercury  equal 
to  the  Abbe — but,  do  look  at  that  old  man  to  the  left — he  is  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  persons  of  the  age." 

"What !  he  with  the  small  features,  and  comely  countenance, 
considering  his  years  ?" 

"  The  same,"  said  Hamilton ;  "  it  is  the  notorious  Choisi. 
You  know  that  he  is  the  modern  Tiresias,  and  has  been  a  wo- 
man as  well  as  man." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? " 

"Ah,  you  may  well  ask!"  cried  Madame  de  Cornuel. 
"  Why,  he  lived  for  many  years  in  the  disguise  of  a  woman, 
and  had  all  sorts  of  curious  adventures." 

*^  Mart  diable .' "  cried  Hamilton:  "it  was  entering  your 
ranks,  Madame,  as  a  spy.  I  hear  he  makes  but  a  sorry  report 
of  what  he  saw  there." 

"  Come,  Count  Antoine,"  cried  the  lively  de  Cornuel,  "  we 
must  not  turn  our  weapons  against  each  other  ;  and  when  you 
attack  a  woman's  sex,  you  attack  her  individually.  But  what 
makes  you  look  so  intently,  Count  Devereux,  at  that  ugly 
priest  ?  " 

The  person  thus  flatteringly  designated  was  Montreuil ;  he 
had  just  caught  my  eye,  among  a  group  of  men  who  were  con- 
versing eagerly. 

"  Hush,  Madame  !  "  said  I,  "  spare  me  for  a  moment  "  ;  and 
I  rose,  and  mingled  with  the  Abbe's  companions.  "So,  you 
have  only  arrived  to-day,"  I  heard  one  of  them  say  to  him. 

"  No,  I  could  not  dispatch  my  business  before." 

"  And  how  are  matters  in  England  ?" 

"  Ripe  ! — if  the  life  of  his  Majesty  (of  France)  be  spared  a 
year  longer,  we  will  send  the  Elector  of  Hanover  back  to  his 
principality." 

"  Hist ! "  said  the  companion,  and  looked  towards  me.     Mon- 


DEVEkEUX.  251 

(reiiil  ceased  abruptly — our  eyes  met — his  fell.  I  affected  to 
look  among  the  group  as  if  I  had  expected  to  find  there  some 
one  I  knew,  and  then,  turning  away,  I  seated  myself  alone  and 
apart.  There,  unobserved,  I  kept  my  looks  on  Montreuil.  I 
remarked  that,  from  time  to  time,  his  keen  dark  eye  glanced 
toward  me,  with  a  look  rather  expressive  of  vigilance  than  any- 
thing else.  Soon  afterwards  his  little  knot  dispersed  ;  I  saw 
him  converse  for  a  few  moments  with  Dubois,  who  received 
him,  I  thought,  distantly;  and  then  he  was  engaged  in  a  long 
conference  with  the  Bishop  of  Frejus,  whom,  till  then,  I  had 
not  perceived  among  the  crowd. 

As  I  was  loitering  on  the  staircase,  where  I  saw  Montreuil 
depart  with  the  bishop,  in  the  carriage  of  the  latter,  Hamilton, 
accosting  me,  insisted  on  my  accompanying  him  to  Chaulieu's, 
where  a  late  supper  awaited  the  sons  of  wine  and  wit.  How- 
ever, to  the  good  Count's  great  astonishment,  I  preferred  soli- 
tude and  reflection,  for  that  night,  to  anything  else. 

Montreuil's  visit  to  the  French  capital  boded  me  no  good. 
He  possessed  great  influence  with  Fleuri,  and  was  in  high  es- 
teem with  Madame  de  Maintenon,  and,  in  effect,  very  shortly 
after  his  return  to  Paris,  the  Bishop  of  Frejus  looked  upon  me 
with  a  most  cool  sort  of  benignancy ;  and  Madame  de  Mainte- 
non told  her  friend,  the  Duchesse  de  St.  Simon,  that  it  was  a 
great  pity  a  young  nobleman  of  my  birth  and  prepossessing 
appearance — (ay  !  my  prepossessing  appearance  would  never 
have  occurred  to  the  devotee,  if  I  had  not  seemed  so  sen- 
sible of  her  own) — should  not  only  be  addicted  to  the  wild- 
est dissipation,  but,  worse  still,  to  Jansenistical  tenets.  After 
this,  there  was  no  hope  for  me,  save  in  the  King's  word,  which 
his  increasing  infirmities,'naturally  engrossing  his  attention,  pre- 
vented my  hoping  too  sanguinely  would  dwell  very  acutely  on 
his  remembrance.  I  believe,  however,  so  religiously  scrupu- 
lous was  Louis  upon  a  point  of  honor,  that,  had  he  lived,  I 
should  have  had  nothing  to  complain  of.  As  it  was — but  I 
anticipate  ! — Montreuil  disappeared  from  Paris,  almost  as  sud- 
denly as  he  had  appeared  there.  And,  as  drowning  men  catch 
at  a  straw,  so,  finding  my  affairs  at  a  very  low  ebb,  I  thought 
I  would  take  advice,  even  from  Madame  de  Balzac. 

I  accordingly  repaired  to  her  hotel.  She  was  at  home,  and, 
fortunately,  alone. 

■  "  You  are  welcome,  mon  fls"  said  she  :  "suffer  me  to  give 
you  that  title — you  are  welcome — it  is  some  days  since  I  saw 
you." 

I  have  numbered  them,  I  assure  you,   Madame,"  said  I, 


*52 


DEVEREUX. 


"  and  they  have  crept  with  a  dull  pace;  but  you  know  that 
business  has  claims  as  well  as  pleasure  !  " 

"  True  !  "  said  Madame  de  Balzac  pomiDOusly  ;  "  I  myself 
find  the  weight  of  politics  a  little  insupportable,  though  so  used 
to  it  ;  to  your  young  brain  I  can  readily  imagine  how  irksome 
it  must  be  !  " 

"  Would,  Madame,  that  I  could  obtain  your  experience  by 
contagion  :  as  it  is  I  fear  that  I  have  profited  little  by  my  visit 
to  his  Majesty.  Madame  de  Maintenon  will  not  see  me,  and 
the  Bishop  of  Frejus  (excellent  man!)  has  been  seized  with  a  sud- 
den paralysis  of  memory,  whenever  I  present  myself  in  his  way." 

"  That  party  will  never  do — I  thought  not,"  said  Madame 
de  Balzac,  who  was  a  wonderful  imitator  of  the  fly  on  the 
wheel  ;  "  my  celebrity,  and  the  knowledge  that  /  loved  you  for 
your  father's  sake,  were,  I  fear,  sufficient  to  destroy  your  in- 
terest with  the  Jesuits  and  their  tools.  Well,  well,  we  must  re- 
pair the  mischief  we  have  occasioned  you.  What  place  would 
suit  you  best  ?  " 

"Why,  anything 'diplomatic.  I  would  rather  travel,  at  my 
age,  than  remain  in  luxury  and  indolence  even  at  Paris !  " 

"  Ah,  nothing  like  diplomacy  !  "  said  Madame  de  Balzac,  with 
the  air  of  a  Richelieu,  and  emptying  her  snuff-box  at  a  pinch  ; 
"  but  have  you,  my  son,  the  requisite  qualities  for  that  science, 
as  well  as  the  tastes  ?  Are  you  capable  of  intrigue  ?  Can  you 
say  one  thing  and  mean  another  ?  Are  you  aware  of  the  im- 
mense consequence  of  a  look  or  a  bow  ?  Can  you  live  like  a 
spider,  in  the  centre  of  an  inexplicable  net — inexplicable  as 
well  as  dangerous — to  all  but  the  weaver  ?  That,  my  son,  is 
the  art  of  politics — that  is  to  be  a  diplomatist  I  " 

"  Perhaps,  to  one  less  penetrating  than  Madame  de  Balzac," 
answered  I,  "I  might,  upon  trial,  not  appear  utterly  ignorant  of 
the  noble  art  of  state  duplicity  which  she  has  so  eloquently 
depicted." 

"  Possibly  !  "  said  the  good  lady ;  "it  must  indeed  be  a  pro- 
found dissimulator  to  deceive  me." 

*'  But  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do  in  the  present  crisis  ? 
What  party  to  adopt — what  individual  to  flatter  ? " 

Nothing,  I  already  discovered,  and  have  already  observed, 
did  the  inestimable  Madame  de  Balzac  dislike  more  than  a 
downright  question — she  never  answered  it. 

"  Why,  really/'  said  she,  preparing  herself  for  along  speech, 
"  I  am  quite  glad  you  consult  me,  and  I  will  give  you  the  best 
advice  in  my  power.  Ecoiiiez  dime — you  have  seen  the  Due 
de  Maine?" 


r>EVEREUX.  253 

"Certainly!" 

"  Hum  !  ha  !  it  would  be  wise  to  follow  him  ;  but — you  take 
me — you  understand. — Then,  you  know,  my  son,  there  is  the 
Due  d'Orleans — fond  of  pleasure — full  of  talent — but  you 
know — there  is  a  little — what  do  you  call  it — you  understand. 
As  for  tlie  Due  de  Bourbon,  'tis  quite  a  simpleton — neverthe- 
less we  must  consider — nothing  like  consideration — believe  me, 
no  diplomatist  ever  hurries.  As  for  Madame  de  Maintenon — • 
you  know,  and  I  know  too,  that  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans  calls 
her  an  old  hag — but  then — a  word  to  the  wise — Eh  ? — Avhat 
shall  we  say  to  Madame  the  Duchesse  herself? — what  a  fat 
woman  she  is — but  excessively  clever^such  a  letter-writer  ! — 
Well — you  see,  my  dear  young  friend,  that  it  is  a  very  difficult 
matter  to  decide  upon — but  you  must  already  be  fully  aware 
what  plan  I  should  advise."  i 

"Already,  Madame  !  " 

"To  be  sure!  What  have  I  been  saying  to  you  all  this 
time  ? — did  you  not  hear  me  ? — Shall  I  repeat  my  advice  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  perfectly  comprehend  you  now  ;  you  would  ad- 
vise me — in  short — to — to — do — as  well  as  I  can." 

"  You  have  said  it,  my  son.  I  thought  you  would  under- 
stand me  on  a  little  reflection." 

"  To  be  sure — to  be  sure,"  said  I. 

And  three  ladies  being  announced,  my  conference  with 
Madame  de  Balzac  ended. 

I  now  resolved  to  wait  a  little  till  the  tides  of  power  seemed 
somewhat  more  settled,  and  I  could  ascertain  in  what  quarter 
to  point  my  bark  of  enterprise.  I  gave  myself  rather  more 
eagerly  to  society,  in  proportion  as  my  political  schemes  were 
suffered  to  remain  torpid.  My  mind  could  not  remain  quiet, 
without  preying  on  itself ;  and  no  evil  appeared  to  me  so  great 
as  tranquillity.  Thus  the  spring  and  earlier  summer  passed 
on,  till,  in  August,  the  riots  preceding  the  Rebellion  broke 
out  in  Scotland.  At  this  time  I  saw  but  little  of  Lord  Boling- 
broke  in  private ;  though,  with  his  characteristic  affectation, 
he  took  care  that  the  load  of  business,  with  which  he  was  really 
oppressed,  should  not  prevent  his  enjoyment  of  all  gayeties  in 
public.  And  my  indifference  to  the  cause  of  the  Chevalier,  in 
which  he  was  so  warmly  engaged,  threw  a  natural  restraint 
upon  our  conversation,  and  produced  an  involuntary  coldness 
in  our  intercourse — so  impossible  is  it  for  men  to  be  private 
fjiends  who  differ  on  a  public  matter. 

One  evening  I  was  engaged  to  meet  a  large  party,  at  a 
country-house  about  forty  miles  from  Paris.     I  went,  and  stayed 


^54  DEVEREUX. 

some  days.  My  horses  had  accompanied  me ;  and,  when  1 
left  the  chateau,  I  resolved  to  make  the  journey  to  Paris  on 
horseback.  Accordingly,  I  ordered  my  carriage  to  follow  me. 
and  attended  by  a  single  groom  commenced  my  expedition. 
It  was  a  beautiful  still  morning — the  first  day  of  the  first  month 
of  autumn.  I  had  proceeded  about  ten  miles,  when  I  fell  in 
with  an  old  French  officer.  I  remember — though  I  never  saw 
him  but  that  once — I  remember  his  face  as  if  I  had  encountered 
it  yesterday.  It  was  thin  and  long,  and  yellow  enough  to  have 
served  as  a  caricature,  rather  than  a  portrait,  of  Don  Quixote. 
He  had  a  hook  nose,  and  a  long,  sharp  chin  ;  and  all  the  lines, 
wrinkles,  curves  and  furrows,  of  which  the  human  visage  is 
capable,  seemed  to  have  met  in  his  cheeks.  Nevertheless,  his 
eye  was  bright  and  keen — his  look  alert — and  his  whole  bear- 
ing firm,  gallant,  and  soldier-like.  He  was  attired  in  a  sort  of 
military  undress — wore  a  mustachio,  which,  though  thin  and 
gray,  was  carefully  curled;  and  at  the  summit  of  a  very  re- 
spectable wig  was  perched  a  small  cocked-hat,  adorned  with  a 
black  feather.  He  rode  very  upright  in  his  saddle  ;  and  his 
horse,  a  steady,  stalwart  quadruped  of  the  Norman  breed,  with 
a  terribly  long  tail,  and  a  prodigious  breadth  of  chest,  yut  one 
stately  leg  before  another  in  a  kind  of  trot,  which,  though  it 
seemed,  from  its  height  of  action,  and  the  proud  look  of  the 
steed,  a  pretension  to  motion  more  than  ordinarily  brisk,  was, 
in  fact,  a  little  slower  than  a  common  walk. 

This  noble  cavalier  seemed  sufficiently  an  object  of  curiosity 
to  my  horse  to  induce  the  animal  to  testify  his  surprise  by  shy- 
ing, very  jealously  and  very  vehemently,  in  passing  him.  This 
ill-breeding  on  his  part  was  indignantly  returned  on  the  part 
of  the  Norman  charger,  who,  uttering  a  sort  of  squeak,  and 
shaking  his  long  mane  and  head,  commenced  a  series  of  curvets 
and  capers  which  cost  the  old  Frenchman  no  little  trouble  to 
appease.  In  the  midst  of  these  equine  freaks,  the  horse  came 
so  near  me  as  to  splash  my  nether  garment,  with  a  liberality  as 
little  ornamental  as  it  was  pleasurable. 

The  old  Frenchman,  seeing  this,  took  off  his  cocked  hat  very 
politely,  and  apologized  for  the  accident.  I  replied  with  equal 
courtesy  ;  and,  as  our  horses  slid  into  quiet,  their  riders  slid 
into  conversation.  It  was  begun  and  chiefly  sustained  by  my 
new  comrade ;  for  I  am  little  addicted  to  commence  unneces- 
sary socialities  myself,  though  I  should  think  very  meanly  of 
my  pretensions  to  the  name  of  a  gentleman  and  a  courtier,  if  I 
did  not  return  them  when  offered,  even  by  a  beggar, 

"It  is  a  fine  horse  of  yours,  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  French- 


DEVEREUX.  255 

'tnan  ,  "but  I  cannot  believe — pardon  me  for  saying  so — that 
your  slight  English  steeds  are  so  well  adapted  to  the  purposes 
of  war  as  our  strong  chargers — such  as  mine  for  example." 

"  It  is  very  possible,  Monsieur,"  said  I.  "  Has  the  horse  you 
now  ride  done  service  in  the  field  as  well  as  on  the  road  ?  " 

"Ah!  le  pauvre  petit  mignon — no!" — {petit,  indeed — this 
little  darling  was  seventeen  hands  high  at  the  very  least) — "no, 
Monsieur ;  it  is  but  a  young  creature  this — his  grandfather 
served  me  well !  " 

"  I  need  not  asic  you,  Monsieur,  if  you  have  borne  arms — the 
soldier  is  stamped  upon  you  !  " 

"Sir,  you  flatter  me  highly  !"  said  the  old  gentleman,  blush- 
ing to  the  very  tip  of  his  long  lean  ears,  and  bowing  as  low  as 
if  I  had  called  him  a  Conde ;  "I  have  followed  the  profession 
of  arms  for  more  than  fifty  years." 

"  Fifty  years — 'tis  a  long  time  ! " 

"A  long  time,"  rejoined  my  companion,  "a  long  time  to  look 
back  upon  with  regret." 

"  Regret !  by  Heaven — I  should  think  the  remembrance  of 
fifty  years'  excitement  and  glory  would  be  a  remembrance  of 
triumph." 

The  old  man  turned  round  on  his  saddle,  and  looked  at  me 
for  some  moments  very  wistfully — "  You  are  young,  sir,"  he 
said,  "  and  at  your  years  I  should  have  thought  with  you — ■ 
but — "  (then  abruptly  changing  his  voice  he  continued) — "  Tri- 
umph, did  you  say  ?  sir,  I  have  had  three  sons  ;  they  are  dead — 
they  died  in  battle — I  did  not  weep — I  did  not  shed  a  tear, 
sir — not  a  tear !  But  I  will  tell  you  when  I  did  weep.  I  came 
back,  an  old  man,  to  the  home  I  had  left  as  a  young  one.  I 
saw  the  country  a  desert.  I  saw  that  the  noblesse  had  become 
tyrants — the  peasants  had  become  slaves — such  slaves — savage 
from  despair — even  when  they  were  most  gay,  most  fearfully 
gay,  from  constitution,  .  Sir,  1  saw  the  priest  rack  and  grind, 
and  the  seigneur  exact  and  pillage,  and  the  tax-gatherer  squeeze 
out  the  little  the  other  oppressors  had  left : — anger,  discontent, 
wretchedness,  famine,  a  terrible  separation  between  one  order 
of  people  and  another — an  incredible  indifference  to  the  mis- 
eries of  their  depotism  caused,  on  the  part  of  the  aristocracy — 
a  sullen  and  vindictive  hatred  for  the  perpetration  of  those 
miseries  on  the  part  of  the  people — all  places  sold — even  all 
honors  priced,  at  the  court,  which  was  become  a  public  mar" 
ket — a  province  of  peasants — of  living  men  bartered  for  a  few 
livres,  and  literally  passed  from  one  hand  to  another — to  be 
squeezed  and  drained  anew  by  each  new  possessor — in  a  word, 


256  DEVEREUX. 

sir,  an  abandoned  court,  an  unredeemed  noblesse — UTiredeemed, 
sir,  by  a  single  benefit  which,  in  other  countries,  even  the  most 
feudal,  the  vassal  obtains  from  the  master — a  peasantry  fam- 
ished— a  nation  loaded  with  debt,  which  it  sought  to  pay  by 
tears, — these  are  what  I  saw — these  are  the  consequences  of 
that  heartless  and  miserable  vanity,  from  which  arose  wars 
neither  useful  nor  honorable — these  are  the  real  components 
of  that  triumph^  as  you  term  it,  which  you  wonder  that  I 
regret." 

Now,  although  it  was  impossible  to  live  at  the  court  of  Louis 
XIV.  in  his  latter  days,  and  not  feel,  from  the  general  discon- 
tent that  prevailed  even //i^r<f,  what  a  dark  truth  the  old  soldier's 
speech  contained — yet  I  was  somewhat  surprised  by  an  enthusi- 
asm so  little  military  in  a  person  whose  bearing  and  air  were 
so  conspicuously  martial. 

"  You  draw  a  melancholy  picture,"  said  I ;  "  and  the  wretch- 
ed state  of  culture  which  the  lands  that  we  now  pass  through 
exhibit,  is  a  witness  how  little  exaggeration  there  is  in  your 
coloring.  However,  these  are  but  the  ordinary  evils  of  war, 
and,  if  your  country  endures  them,  do  not  forget  that  she  has 
also  inflicted  them.  Remember  what  France  did  to  Holland, 
and  own  that  it  is  but  a  retribution  that  France  should  now 
find  that  the  injury  we  do  to  others  is  (among  nations  as  well 
as  individuals)  injury  to  ourselves." 

My  old  Frenchman  curled  his  moustaches  with  the  finger 
and  thumb  of  his  left  hand ;  this  was  rather  too  subtle  a  dis- 
tinction for  him. 

"That  may  be  true  enough.  Monsieur,"  said  he;  "but,  mor- 
bleu,  those  maudits  Dutchmen  deserved  what  they  sustained  at 
our  hands.  No,  sir,  no — I  am  not  so  base  as  to  forget  the 
glory  my  country  acquired,  though  I  weep  for  her  wounds." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  sir,"  said  I ;  "did  you  not 
just  now  confess  that  the  wars  you  had  witnessed  were  neither 
honorable  nor  useful  ?  What  glory,  then,  was  to  be  acquired 
in  a  war  of  that  character,  even  though  it  was  so  deliglitfully 
animated  by  cutting  the  throats  of  *  those  maudits  Dutchmen '  ?" 

"Sir,"  answered  the  Frenchman,  drawing  himself  up,  "you 
do  not  understand  me.  When  we  punished  Holland,  we  did 
rightly.      We  conquered !'' 

"Whether  you  conquered,  or  not  (for  the  good  folic  of  Hol- 
land are  not  so  sure  of  the  fact),"  answered  I,  "that  war  was 
the  most  unjust  in  which  your  king  was  ever  engaged  ;  but 
pray,  tell  me,  sir,  what  war  it  is  that  you  lament." 

The  Frenchman  frowned — whistled— put  out  his  under  lip,  in 


DEVEREUX,  257 

a  sort  of  angry  embarrassment — and  then,  spurring  his  great 
horse  into  a  curvet,  said, 

"  That  last  war  with  the  English  !  " 

"Faith,"  said  /,  "that  was  the  justest  of  all." 

"  Just !  "  cried  the  Frencliman,  halting  abruptly,  and  darting 
at  nie  a  glance  of  fire,  "just  !  no  more,  sir  !  no  more  !  I  was 
at  Blenheim,  and  at  Ramiilies  !  " 

As  the  old  warrior  said  the  last  words,  his  voice  faltered ; 
and  though  I  could  not  help  inly  smiling  at  the  confusion  of 
ideas,  by  which  wars  were  just  or  unjust,  according  as  they 
were  fortunate  or  not,  yet  I  respected  his  feelings  enough  to 
turn  away  my  face,  and  remain  silent. 

"  Yes,"  renewed  my  comrade,  coloring  with  evident  shame, 
and  drawing  his  cocked  hat  over  his  brows,  "yes  I  received  my 
last  wound  at  Ramiilies.  Then  my  eyes  were  opened  to  the 
horrors  of  war ;  theii  I  saw  and  cursed  the  evils  of  ambition  ; 
then  I  resolved  to  retire  from  the  armies  of  a  king  who  had  lost 
forever  his  name,  his  glory,  and  his  country." 

Was  there  ever  a  better  type  of  the  French  nation  than  this 
old  soldier  ?  As  long  as  fortune  smiles  on  them,  it  is  ^^  Marc/ions 
au  diable!"  and  ''' Vive  la  gloire  !  "  Directly  they  get  beat,  it 
is  ''''  Ma  pauvre  pairie !"  and  "Z^J  calamiie's  aff reuses  de  la 
guerre  !" 

"However,"  said  I,  "the  old  King  is  drawing  near  the  end 
of  his  days,  and  is  said  to  express  his  repentance  at  the  evils 
his  ambition  has  occasioned." 

The  old  soldier  shoved  back  his  hat,  and  offered  me  his 
snuff-box.     I  judged  by  this  that  he  was  a  little  mollified. 

"Ah!"  he  renewed,  after  a  pause,  "Ah  !  times  are  sadly 
changed,  since  the  year  1667;  when  the  young  King — he 
was  young  then-^-took  the  field,  in  Flanders,  under  the  great 
Turenne.  Sacristie !  What  a  hero  he  looked  upon  his  white 
war-horse  !  I  would  have  gone — ay,  and  the  meanest  and 
backwardest  soldier  in  the  camp  would  have  gone — into  the 
very  mouth  of  the  cannon,  for  a  look  from  that  magnificent 
countenance,  or  a  word  from  that  mouth  which  knew  so  well 
what  words  were  !  Sir,  there  was  in  the  war  of  '72,  when  we 
were  at  peace  with  Great  Britain,  an  English  gentleman,  then 
in  the  army,  afterwards  a  marshal  of  France  :  I  remember,  as 
if  it  were  yesterday,  how  gallantly  he  behaved.  The  King  sent 
to  compliment  him  after  some  signal  proof  of  courage  and  con- 
duct, and  asked  what  reward  he  would  have.  'Sire,'  answered 
the  Englishman,  'give  me  the  white  plume  you  wore  this  day.' 
From  that  moment  the  Englishman's  fortune  was  made." 


258  DEVEREUX. 

"  The  flattery  went  farther  than  the  valor  !  "  said  I,  smiling 
as  I  recognized  in  the  anecdote  the  first  great  step  which 
my  father  had  made  in  the  ascent  of  fortune. 

''^ Sacristie !  "  cried  the  Frenchman,  "it  was  no  flattery  then. 
We  so  idolized  the  King,  that  mere  truth  would  have  seemed 
disloyalty;  and  we  no  more  thought  that  praise,  however  ex- 
travagant, was  adulation,  when  directed  to  him,  than  we  should 
have  thought  there  was  adulation  in  the  praise  we  would  have 
given  to  our  first  mistress.  But  it  is  all  changed  now  !  Who 
now  cares  for  the  old  priest-ridden  monarch  ? " 

And  upon  this  the  veteran,  having  conquered  the  momentary 
enthusiasn  which  there  membrance  of  the  King's  earlier  glories 
had  excited,  transferred  all  his  genius  of  description  to  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  question,  and  declaimed,  with  great  energy, 
upon  the  royal  vices  and  errors,  which  were  so  charming  in 
prosperity,  and  were  now  so  detestable  in  adversity. 

While  we  were  thus  conversing  we  approached  Versailles. 
We  thought  the  vicinity  of  the  town  seemed  unusually  deserted. 
We  entered  the  main  street — crowds  were  assembled — a  uni- 
versal murmur  was  heard — excitement  sat  on  every  countenance. 
Here  an  old  crone  was  endeavoring  to  explain  something,  evi- 
dently beyond  his  comprehension,  to  a  child  of  three  years  old; 
who,  with  open  mouth  and  fixed  eyes,  seemed  to  make  up  in 
wonder  for  the  want  of  intelligence  ;  there  a  group  of  old  dis- 
banded soldiers  occupied  the  way,  and  seemed,  from  their  mut- 
tered conversations,  to  vent  a  sneer  and  a  jest  at  a  priest,  who, 
with  downward  countenance  and  melancholy  air,  was  hurrying 
along. 

One  young  fellow  was  calling  out — **  At  least,  it  is  a  holyday, 
and  I  shall  go  to  Paris  !  " — and,  as  a  contrast  to  him,  an  old 
withered  artisan,  leaning  on  a  gold-headed  cane,  with  sharp 
avarice  eloquent  in  every  line  of  his  face,  muttered  out  to  a  fel- 
low miser — *'  No  business  to-day — no  money, John — no  money ! " 
One  knot  of  women  of  all  ages,  close  by  which  my  horse  passed, 
was  entirely  occupied  with  a  single  topic,  and  that  so  vehe- 
Tnently,that  I  heard  the  leading  words  of  the  discussion.  **  Mourn- 
ing— becoming — what  fashion? — how  long? — O  del  /  "  Thus 
do  follies  weave  themselves  round  the  bier  of  death  ! 

"  What  is  the  news,  gentlemen  ?  "  said  I. 
;    **  News — what,  you  have  not  heard  it  ? — The  King  is  dead ! " 

"Louis  dead  —  Louis  the  Great,  dead!"  cried  my  com- 
panion. 

"  Louis  the  Great !  "  said  a  sullen-looking  man— "Louis  the 
persecutor  ! " 


DEVEREUX.  259 

"Ah,  he's  a  Huguenot  !  "  cried  another  with  haggard  cheeks 
and  hollow  eyes,  scowling  at  the  last  speaker.  "  Never  mind 
what  lie  says — the  King  was  right  when  he  refused  protection 
to  the  Heretics — but  was  he  right  when  he  levied  such  taxes 
on  the  Catholics  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  a  third — "  hush — it  may  be  unsafe  to  speak — 
there  are  spies  about  ;  for  my  part,  I  think  it  was  all  the  fault 
of  the  Noblesse." 

"  And  the  Favorites  ! "  cried  a  soldier  fiercely. 

"  And  the  Harlots  !  "  cried  a  hag  of  eighty. 

"And  the  Priests!  "  muttered  the  Huguenot. 

"  And  the  Tax-gatherers  ! "  added  the  lean  Catholic. 

We  rode  slowly  on.  My  comrade  was  evidently  and  power- 
fully affected. 

"  So  he  is  dead  !  "  said  he.  "  Dead  ! — well — well — peace  be 
with  him.  He  conquered  in  Holland — he  humbled  Genoa — 
he  dictated  to  Spain — he  commanded  Conde  and  Turenne — 
he — Bah!  What  is  all  this?"  (then,  turning  abruptly  to 
me,  my  companion  cried) — "  I  did  not  speak  against  the  King, 
did  I,  sir?" 

"Not  much." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that — yes,  very  glad  !  "  And  the  old  man 
glared  fiercely  round  on  a  troop  of  boys,  who  were  audibly 
abusing  the  dead  lion. 

"  I  would  have  bit  out  my  tongue,  rather  than  it  had  joined 
in  the  base  joy  of  these  yelping  curs.  Heavens  !  when  1  think 
what  shouts  I  have  heard — when  the  name  of  that  man,  then 
deemed  little  less  than  a  god,  was  but  breathed  ! — and  now — 
why  do  you  look  at  me,  sir?  My  eyes  are  moist — I  know  it, 
sir — I  know  it.  The  old,  battered,  broken  soldier,  who  made 
his  first  campaigns,  when  that  which  is  now  dust  was  the  idol 
of  France,  and  the  pupil  of  Turenne — the  old  soldier's  eyes 
shall  not  be  dry,  though  there  is  not  another  tear  shed  in  the 
whole  of  this  great  empire." 

"  Your  three  sons  !  "  said  I ;  "  you  did  not  weep  for  them  ? " 

"  No,  sir — I  loved  them  when  I  was  old  ;  but  I  loved  Louis 
when  I  was  young  I  " 

"  Your  oppressed  and  pillaged  country  ! "  said  I — "  think  of 
that." 

"No,  sir,  I  will  not  think  of  it  ! "  cried  the  old  warrior  in  a 
passion.     "  I  will  not  think  of  it — to-day,  at  least." 

"You  are  right,  my  brave  friend;  in  the  grave  let  us  bury 
even  public  wrongs — but  let  us  not  bury  their  remembrance. 
May  the  joy  we   read  in  every  face   that  we  pass — joy  at   the 


26o  DEVEREUX. 

death  of  one  whom  idolatry  once  ahiiost  seemed  to  deem  im. 
mortal— be  a  lesson  to  future  kings  !  " 

My  comrade  did  not  immediately  answer  ;  but,  after  a  pause, 
and  we  had  turned  our  backs  upon  the  town,  he  said  : 

"  Toy  sir— you  spoke  of  joy  !  Yes,  we  are  Frenchmen— we 
foreive  our  rulers  easily  for  i)rivate  vices  and  petty  faults  ;  but 
we  never  forgive  them  if  they  commit  the  greatest  of  faults, 
and  suffer  a  stain  to  rest  ujion— " 

"  What  ? "  I  asked,  as  my  comrade  broke  off. 

"The  national  glory.  Monsieur  !  "  said  he. 

"  You  have  hit  it,"  said  I,  smiling  at  the  turgid  sentiment 
which  was  so  really  and  deeply  felt.  "And  had  you  written 
folios  upon  the  character  of  your  countrymen,  you  could  not 
have  expressed  it  better." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

In  which  there  is  reason  to  fear  that  Princes  are  not  invariably  free  from 
Human  Peccadillos. 

On  entering  Paris,  my  veteran  fellow-traveller  took  leave  of 
me,  and  I  proceeded  to  my  hotel.  When  the  first  excitement 
of  my  thoughts  was  a  little  subsided,  and  after  some  feelings  of 
a  more  public  nature,  I  began  to  consider  what  influence  the 
King's  death  was  likely  to  have  on  my  own  fortunes  :  I  could 
not  but  see,  at  a  glance,  that  for  the  cause  of  the  CheV.^li^i".  ^"^ 
the  destiny  of  his  present  exertions  in  Scotland,  it  was  the  most 
fatal  event  that  could  have  occurred. 

The  balance  of  power,  in  the  contending  factions  of  France, 
would,  I  foresaw,  lie  entirely  between  the  Duke  of  Orleans  and 
the  legitimatized  children  of  the  late  King;  the  latter, closely 
leagued  as  they  were  with  Madame  de   Maintenon,  could  not 
be  much  disposed  to  consider  the  welfare  of  Count  Devereux  ; 
and  my  wishes,  therefore,  naturally  settled  on   the   former,     I 
was  not  doomed  to  a  long  suspense.     Every  one  knows,  that 
the  very  next  day  the  Duke  of  Orleans  appeared  before  Parliar- 
ment,  and  was  proclaimed  Regent — that  the  will  of  the  late, 
king  was  set  aside — and  that  the  Duke  of  Maine  suddenly  be- 
came as  low  in   power  as  he  had  always  been  despicable  in-, 
intellect.     A  little  hubbub  ensued — people  in  general  laughed' 
at  the  Regent's  finesse — and  the  more   sagacious   admired  the  • 
courage  and  address  of  which  the  finesse  was  composed.     The , 
Regent's  mother  wrote  a  letter  of  sixty-nine  pages  about  it  ; 
and  the  Duchess  of  Maine  boxed  the.  4uke's   ear§  very  heartily ; 


DEVEREUX.  261 

for  not  being  as  clever  as  herself.  All  Paris  teemed  with  joyous 
forebodings  ;  and  the  Regent,  whom  every  one,  some  time  ago, 
had  suspected  of  poisoning  his  cousins,  every  one  now  declared 
to  be  the  most  perfect  prince  that  could  possibly  be  imagined, 
and  the  very  picture  of  Henri  Quatre,  in  goodness  as  well  as  in 
physiognomy.  Three  days  after  this  event,  one  happened  to 
myself,  with  which  my  public  career  maybe  said  to  commence. 

I  had  spent  the  evening  at  a  house  in  a  distant  part  of  Paris, 
and,  invited  by  the  beauty  of  the  night,  had  dismissed  my  car- 
riage, and  was  walking  home  alone,  and  on  foot.  Occupied 
with  my  reflections,  and  not  very  well  acquainted  with  the 
dangerous  and  dark  streets  of  Paris,  in  which  it  was  very  rare 
for  those  who  have  carriages  to  wander  on  foot,  I  insensibly 
strayed  from  my  proper  direction.  When  I  first  discovered 
this  disagreeable  fact,  I  was  in  a  filthy  and  obscure  lane  rather 
than  street,  which  I  did  not  remember  having  ever  honored 
with  my  presence  before.  While  I  was  pausing  in  the  vain 
hope  and  anxious  endeavor  to  shape  out  some  imaginary  chart — 
some  *'  map  of  the  mind,"  by  which  to  direct  my  bewildered 
course,  I  heard  a  confused  noise  proceed  from  another  lane  at 
right  angles  with  the  one  in  which  I  then  was.  I  listened — the 
sound  became  more  distinct — I  recognized  human  voices  in 
loud  and  angry  altercation  — a  moment  more,  and  there  was  a 
scream.  Though  I  did  not  attach  much  importance  to  the 
circumstance,  1  thought  I  might  as  well  approach  nearer  to  the 
quarter  of  noise.  I  walked  to  the  door  of  the  house  from  which 
the  scream  proceeded  ;  it  was  very  small,  and  mean.  Just  as 
I  neared  it,  a  window  was  thrown  open,  and  a  voice  cried — 
"Help  !  help  !  for  God's  sake,  help  !  " 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "     I  asked. 

"Whoever  you  are,  save  us!"  cried  the  voice,  "  and  that 
instantly,  or  we  shall  be  murdered":  and,  the  moment  after, 
the  voice  ceased  abruptly,  and  was  succeeded  by  the  clashing 
of  swords. 

I  beat  loudly  at  the  door — I  shouted  out — no  answer ;  the 
scuffle  within  seemed  to  increase ;  I  saw  a  small  blind  alley  to 
the  left ;  one  of  the  unfortunate  women,  to  whom  such  places 
are  homes,  was  standing  in  it. 

"  What  possibility  is  there  of  entering  the  house?"     I  asked. 

"Oh!"  said  she,  "  it  does  not  matter;  it  is  not  the  first 
time  gentlemen  have  cut  each  other's  throats  there." 

"What !  is  it  a  house  of  bad  repute?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  where  there  are  bullies  who  wear  knives,  and 
take  purses — as  well  as  ladies,  who — " 


262  DEVEREUX. 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  I,  interrupting  her,  "there  is  no 
time  to  be  lost.  Is  there  no  way  of  entrance  but  at  this 
door?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  bold  enough  to  enter  at  another  !  " 

"  Where  ? " 

"  Down  this  alley." 

Immediately  I  entered  the  alley — the  woman  pointed  to  a 
small,  dark,  narrow  flight  of  stairs — I  ascended — the  sounds 
increased  in  loudness.  I  mounted  to  the  second  flight — alight 
streamed  from  a  door — the  clashing  of  swords  was  distinctly 
audible  within — I  broke  open  the  door,  and  found  myself  a 
witness  and  intruder  in  a  scene  at  once  ludicrous  and  fearful. 

A  table,  covered  with  bottles  and  the  remnants  of  a  meal, 
was  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  several  articles  of  women's 
dress  were  scattered  over  the  floor  ;  two  women  of  unequivocal 
description  were  clinging  to  a  man  riclily  dressed,  and  who 
having  fortunately  got  behind  an  immense  chair,  that  had  been 
overthrown,  probably  in  the  scuffle,  managed  to  keep  off  with 
awkward  address  a  fierce-looking  fellow,  who  had  less  scope 
for  the  ability  of  his  sword-arm,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
attempting  to  pull  away  the  chair  with  his  left  hand.  Wiien- 
ever  he  stooped  to  effect  this  object,  his  antagonist  thrust  at 
him  very  vigorously,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  embarrassment 
his  female  enemies  occasioned  him,  the  latter  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  dispatched  or  disabled  his  besieger.  This 
fortified  gentleman,  being  backed  by  the  window,  I  immediately 
concluded  to  be  the  person  who  had  called  to  me  for  assistance. 

At  the  other  corner  of  the  apartment  was  another  cavalier, 
who  used  his  sword  with  singular  skill,  but  who,  being  hard 
pressed  by  two  lusty  fellows,  was  forced  to  employ  that  skill 
rather  in  defence  than  attack.  Altogether,  the  disordered 
appearance  of  the  room,  the  broken  bottles,  the  fumes  with 
which  the  hot  atmosphere  teemed,  the  evident  profligacy  of  the 
two  women,  the  half -undressed  guise  of  the  cavaliers,  and  the 
ruffian  air  and  collected  ferocity  of  the  assailants,  plainly  denoted 
that  it  was  one  of  those  perilous  festivals  of  pleasure  in  which 
imprudent  gallants  were  often,  in  that  day,  betrayed  by  treacher- 
ous Delilahs  into  the  hands  of  Philistines,  who,  not  contented 
with  stripping  them  for  the  sake  of  plunder,  frequently  mur- 
dered them  for  the  sake  of  secrecy. 

Having  taken  a  rapid,  but  satisfactory,  survey  of  the  scene, 
I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  make  any  preparatory  parley. 
I  threw  myself  upon  the  nearest  bravo  with  so  hearty  a  good 
will  that  I  ran  him  through  the  body  before  he  had  recovered 


UEVEREUX.  263 

his  surprise  at  my  appearance.     This  somewhat  startled  the 
other  two  ;  they  drew  back  and  demanded  quarter. 

"  Quarter,  indeed  ! "  cried  the  farther  cavalier,  releasing 
himself  from  his  astonished  female  assailants,  and  leaping 
nimbly  over  his  bulwark,  into  the  centre  of  the  room  —  'quarter, 
indeed,  rascally  ivrognes  !  No  ;  it  is  our  turn  now  ;  and,  by 
Joseph  of  Arimathea !  you  shall  sup  with  Pilate  to  night." 
So  saying,  he  pressed  his  old  assailant  so  fiercely  that,. after  a 
short  contest,  the  latter  retreated  till  he  had  backed  himself  to 
the  door  j  he  then  suddenly  turned  round,  and  vanished  in  a 
twinkling.  The  third  and  remaining  ruffian  was  far  from 
thinking  himself  a  match  for  three  men  :  he  fell  on  his  knees, 
and  implored  mercy.  However  the  ci-devant  sustainer  of  the 
besieged  chair  was  but  little  disposed  to  afford  him  the  clemency 
he  demanded,  and  approached  the  crestfallen  bravo  with  so 
grim  an  air  of  truculent  delight,  brandishing  his  sword,  and 
uttering  the  most  terrible  threats,  that  there  would  have  been 
small  doubt  of  the  final  catastrophe  of  the  trembling  bully,  had 
not  the  other  gallant  thrown  himself  in  the  way  of  his  friend. 

"  Put  up  thy  sword,"  said  he,  laughing,  and  yet  with  an  air 
of  command  ;  "we  must  not  court  crime,  and  then  punish  it." 
Then,  turning  to  the  bully,  he  said.  ''  Rise,  Sir  Rascal  !  the 
devil  spares  thee  a  little  longer,  and  this  gentleman  will  not 
disobey  his,  as  well  as  ihy  master's  wishes. — Begone !  " 

The  fellow  wanted  no  second  invitation  :  he  sprang  to  his 
legs,  and  to  the  door.  The  disappointed  cavalier  assisted  his 
descent  down  the  stairs  with  a  kick,  that  would  have  done  the 
work  of  the  sword  to  any  flesh  not  accustomed  to  similar 
applications.  Putting  up  his  rapier,  the  milder  gentleman  then 
turned  to  the  ladies,  who  lay  huddled  together  under  shelter  of 
the  chair  which  their  intended  victim  had  deserted. 

"  Ah,  Mesdames,"  said  he,  gravely,  and  with  a  low  bow,  "  I 
am  sorry  for  your  disappointment.  As  long  as  you  contented 
yourselves  with  robbery,  it  were  a  shame  to  have  interfered 
with  your  innocent  amusements  ;  but  cold  steel  becomes  serious. 
Monsieur  d'Argenson  will  favor  you  with  some  inquiries  to- 
morrow ;  at  present,  I  recommend  you  to  empty  what  remains 
in  the  bottle.  Adieu  !  Monsieur,  to  whom  I  am  so  greatly 
indebted,  honor  me  with  your  arm  down  these  stairs.  You" 
(turning  to  his  friend)  "will  follow  us,  and  keep  a  sharp  look 
behind.     Allons !     Vive  Henri  Qiiatre !" 

As  we  descended  the  dark  and  rough  stairs,  my  new  com- 
panion said,  "  What  an  excellent  antidote  to  the  effects  of  the 
%nn  de  champagne  is  this  same  fighting.     I  feel  as  if  I  had  not 


264  DfeVEREUX." 

tasted  a  drop  these  six  hours.  What  fortune  brought  you 
hither,  Monsieur?"  addressing  me. 

We  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs,  a  high 
and  small  window  admitted  the  moonlight,  and  we  saw  each 
others*  faces  clearly. 

"  That  fortune,"  answered  I,  looking  at  my  acquaintance 
steadily,  but  with  an  expression  of  profound  respect — "  that 
fortune  which  watches  over  kingdoms,  and  which,  I  trust,  may 
in  no  place  or  circumstance  be  a  deserter  from  your  Highness." 

"  Highness  !"  said  my  companion,  coloring,  and  darting  a 
glance,  first  at  his  friend  and  then  at  me.  "Hist — sir,  you 
know  me,  then — speak  low — you  know,  then,  for  whom  you 
have  drawn  your  sword  ? " 

"Yes,  so  please  your  Highness.  I  have  drawn  it  this  night 
for  Philip  of  Orleans ;  I  trust  yet,  in  another  scene,  and  for 
another  cause,  to  draw  it  for  the  Regent  of  France  ! " 


CHAPTER  IX. 
A  Prince — an  Audience — and  a  Secret  Embassy. 

The  Regent  remained  silent  for  a  moment ;  he  then  said  in 
an  altered  and  grave  voice,  "  C'est  Men,  Monsieur  !  I  thank  you 
for  the  distinction  you  have  made.  It  were  not  amiss"  (he 
added,  turning  to  his  comrade)  "  that  you  would  now  and  then 
deign,  henceforward,  to  make  the  same  distinction.  But  this 
is  neither  time  nor  place  for  parlance.     On,  gentlemen  !  " 

We  left  the  house,  passed  into  the  street,  and  moved  on 
rapidly,  and  in  silence,  till  the  constitutional  gaiety  of  the  Duke, 
recovering  its  ordinary  tone,  he  said  with  a  laugh — 

"  Well,  now,  it  is  a  little  hard  that  a  man  who  has  been  toil- 
ing all  day  for  the  public  good  should  feel  ashamed  of  indulg- 
ing for  an  hoxtr  or  two  at  night  in  his  private  amusements  ;  but 
so  it  is.  '  Once  grave,  always  grave  ! '  is  the  maxim  of  the 
world — eh,  Chatran  ?  " 

The  companion  bowed.  "Tis  a  very  good  saying,  please 
your  royal  Highness,  and  is  intended  to  warn  us  from  the  sin 
of  ever  being  grave  !  " 

"  Ha,  ha  !  you  have  a  great  turn  for  morality,  my  good 
Chatran  !  ''  cried  the  Duke,  "and  would  draw  a  rule  for  con- 
duct out  of  the  wickedest  l^on  mot  of  Dubois.  Monsieur,  par- 
don me,  but  I  have  seen  you  ijefore  :  you  are  the  Count—" 

"Devereux,  Monseigneur." 


t)EVEk£UX.  265 

"  True,  true  !  I  have  heard  much  of  you  :  you  are  intimate 
with  Milord  Bolingbroke.  Would  that  I  had  fifty  friends  like 
himr 

*'  Monseigneur  would  have  little  trouble  in  his  regency  if  his 
wish  were  realized,"  said  Chatran. 

"  Tantmieux,  so  long  as  I  had  little  odium,  as  well  as  little 
trouble — a  happiness  which,  thanks  to  you  and  Dubois,  I  am 
not  likely  to  enjoy — But  there  is  the  carriage  !  " 

And  the  Duke  pointed  to  a  dark,  plain  carriage,  which  we 
had  suddenly  come  upon. 

"  Count  Devereux,"  said  the  merry  Regent,  "you  will  enter  ; 
my  duty  requires  that,  at  this  seductive  hour,  I  should  see 
a  young  gentleman  of  your  dangerous  age  safely  lodged  at  his 
hotel  !  " 

We  entered,  Chatran  gave  the  orders,  and  we  drove  off  rapidly. 

The  Regent  hummed  a  tune,  and  his  two  companions  listened 
to  it  in  respectful  silence. 

*'  Well,  well.  Messieurs,"  said  he,  bursting  out  at  last  into 
open  voice,  '*  I  will  ever  believe  in  future,  that  the  gods  do\oo\i 
benignantly  on  us  worshippers  of  the  Alma  Venus  !  Do  you 
know  much  of  Tibullus,  Monsieur  Devereux  ?  And  can  you 
assist  my  memory  with  the  continuation  of  the  line — 

"  '  Quisquis  amore  tenetur,  eat — '  " 

"  '  tutusque  sacerque 

Qualibet,  insidias  non  timuisse  decet, '  "  * 

answered  I. 

^^  Bon!"  cried  the  duke.  '*  I  love  a  gentleman  from  my  very 
soul,  when  he  can  both  fight  well  and  read  Latin  !  I  hate  a 
man  who  is  merely  a  wine-bibber  and  blade-drawer.  By  St. 
Louis,  though  it  is  an  excellent  thing  to  fill  the  stomach, 
especially  with  Tokay,  yet  there  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why 
we  should  not  fill  the  head  too.  But  here  we  are.  Adieu, 
Monsieur  Devereux — we  shall  see  you  at  the  Palace." 

I  expressed  my  thanks  briefly  at  the  Regent's  condescension, 
descended  from  the  carriage  (which  instantly  drove  off  with 
renewed  celerity),  and  once  more  entered  my  hotel. 

Two  or  three  days  after  my  adventure  with  the  Regent,  I 
thought  it  expedient  to  favor  that  eccentric  prince  with  a  visit. 
During  the  early  part  of  his  regency,  it  is  well  known  how  suc- 
cessfully he  combated  with  his  natural  indolence,  and  how 
devotedly  his  mornings  were  surrendered  to  the  toils  of  his 
new  office  ;  but  when  pleasure  has  grown  habit,  it  requires  a 

•  Whoever  is  possessed  by  Love  may  go  safe  and  holy  whithersoever  he  likes.     It  becomes 
not  him  to  fear  snares. 


266  DEVEREUX. 

Stronger  mind  than  that  of  Philippe  Debonnair  to  give  it  a 
permanent  successor  in  business.  Pleasure  is,  indeed,  like  the 
genius  of  the  fable,  the  most  useful  of  slaves,  while  you  subdue 
it :  the  most  intolerable  of  tyrants  the  moment  your  negligence 
suffers  it  to  subdue  you. 

The  hours  in  which  the  Prince  gave  audience  to  the  com- 
rades of  his  lighter,  rather  than  grave  occupations,  were  those 
immediately  before  and  after  his  levee.  1  thought  that  this 
would  be  the  best  season  for  me  to  present  myself.  Accord- 
ingly, one  morning  after  the  levee,  I  repaired  to  his  palace. 

The  ante-chamber  was  already  crowded.  I  sat  myself  quietly 
down  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  looked  upon  the  motley 
groups  around.  I  smiled  inly  as  they  reminded  me  of  the 
scenes  my  own  ante-room,  in  my  younger  days  of  folly  and 
fortune  was  wont  to  exhibit ;  the  same  heterogeneous  assem- 
blage (only  upon  a  grander  scale)  of  the  ministers  to  the  physi- 
cal appetites  and  the  mental  tastes.  There  was  the  fretting 
and  impudent  mountebank,  side  by  side  with  the  gentle  and 
and  patient  scholar — the  harlot's  envoy  and  the  priest's  mes- 
senger— the  agent  of  the  police,  and  the  licensed  breaker  of  its 
laws — there  ;  but  what  boots  a  more  prolix  description  ? 
What  is  the  ante-room  of  a  great  man,  who  has  many  wants 
and  many  tastes,  but  a  panorama  of  the  blended  disparities  of 
this  compounded  world.) 

While  I  was  moralizing,  a  gentleman  suddenly  thrust  his 
head  out  of  a  door,  and  appeared  to  reconnoitre  us.  Instantly 
the  crowd  swept  up  to  him.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  follow 
the  general  example,  and  pushing  aside  some  of  my  fellow  loit- 
erers, I  presented  myself  and  my  name  to  the  gentleman,  with 
the  most  ingratiating  air  I  could  command. 

The  gentleman,  who  was  tolerably  civil  for  a  great  man's 
great  man,  promised  that  my  visit  should  be  immediately  an- 
nounced to  the  Prince  ;  and  then,  with  the  politest  bow  imagi- 
nable, slapped  the  door  in  my  face.  After  I  had  waited  about 
seven  or  eight  minutes  longer,  the  gentleman  reappeared, 
singled  me  from  the  crowd,  and  desired  me  to  follow  him  ;  I 
passed  through  another  room,  and  was  presently  in  the  Regent's 
presence. 

I  was  rather  startled  when  I  saw,  by  the  morning  light,  and 
in  deshabille,  the  person  of  that  royal  martyr  to  dissipation. 
His  countenance  was  red,  but  bloated,  and  a  weakness  in  his 
eyes  added  considerably  to  the  jaded  and  haggard  expression 
of  his  features.  A  proportion  of  stomach  rather  inclined  to 
corpulency  seemed  to  betray  the  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  the 


DEVEREUX.  267 

table,  which  the  most  radically  coarse,  and  yet  (strange  to  say) 
the  most  generally  accomplished  and  really  good-natured  of 
royal  profligates,  combined  with  his  other  qualifications.  He 
was  yawning  very  elaborately  over  a  great  heap  of  papers,  when 
I  entered.  He  finished  his  yawn  (as  if  it  were  too  brief  and 
too  precious  a  recreation  to  lose),  and  then  said,  "  Good  morn- 
ing, Monsieur  Devereux  ;  I  am  glad  that  you  have  found  me 
out  at  last." 

"  I  was  afraid,  Monseigneur,  of  appearing  an  intruder  on 
your. presence,  by  offering  my  homage  to  you  before." 

"So  like  my  good  fortune,"  said  the  Regent,  turning  to  a 
man  seated  at  another  table  at  some  distance,  whose  wily, 
astute  countenance,  piercing  eye,  and  licentious  expression  of 
lip  and  brow  indicated  at  once  the  ability  and  vice  which  com- 
posed his  character.  "So  like  my  good  fortune,  is  it  not  Du- 
bois ?  If  ever  I  meet  with  a  tolerably  pleasant  fellow,  who 
does  not  disgrace  me  by  his  birth  or  reputation,  he  is  always 
so  terribly  afraid  of  intruding  !  and  whenever  I  pick  up  a 
respectable  personage  without  wit,  or  a  wit  without  respecta- 
bility, he  attaches  himself  to  me  like  a  burr,  and  can't  live  a 
day  without  inquiring  after  my  health." 

Dubois  smiled,  bowed,  but  did  not  answer,  and  I  saw  that 
his  look  was  bent  darkly  and  keenly  upon  me. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Prince, "  what  think  you  of  our  opera,  Count 
Devereux  ? — It  beats  your  English  one — eh  ?" 

"Ah,  certainly,  Monseigneur;  ours  is  but  a  reflection  of  yours." 

"  So  says  your  friend.  Milord  Bolingbroke,  a  person  who 
knows  about  operas  almost  as  much  as  I  do,  which,  vanity 
apart,  is  saying  a  great  deal.  I  should  like  very  well  to  visit 
England — what  should  I  learn  best  there  ?  In  Spain  (I  shall 
always  love  Spain),  I  learnt  to  cook." 

"Monseigneur,  I  fear,"  answered  I,  smiling,  "could  obtain 
but  little  additional  knowledge  in  that  art  in  our  barbarous 
country.  A  few  rude  and  imperfect  inventions  have,  indeed, 
of  late  years  astonished  the  cultivators  of  the  science  ;  but 
the  night  of  ignorance  rests  still  upon  its  main  principles  and 
leading  truths.  Perhaps,  what  Monseigneur  would  find  best 
worth  studying  in  England  would  be — the  women." 

"Ah,  the  women  all  over  the  world  !  "  cried  the  Duke,  laugh- 
ing ;  "but  I  hear  your  del/es  Anglaises  are  sentimental,  and  love 
(iV  Arcadienney 

"  It  is  true  at  present  :  but  who  shall  say  how  far  Monseign- 
eur's  example  might  enlighten  them  in  a  train  of  thought  so 
erroneous  ? " 


268  DEVEREUX. 

"  True.  Nothing  like  example,  eh,  Dubois  ?  What  would 
Philip  of  Orleans  have  been  but  for  thee  ? " 

"  '  L'exemple  souvent  n'est  qu'un  miroir  trompsur  ; 
Quelquefois  I'un  se  brise  ou  I'autre  s'est  sauve, 
Et  par  ou  I'un  peril,  un  autre  est  conserve ,'  "  * 

answered  Dubois  out  of  Cinna. 

"Corneille  is  right,"  rejoined  the  Regent.  "After  all,  to  do 
thee  justice,  inon  petit  Abbi,  example  has  little  to  do  with  cor- 
rupting us.  Nature  pleads  the  cause  of  Pleasure,  as  Hype- 
rides  pleaded  that  of  Phyrne.  She  has  no  need  of  eloquence  : 
she  unveils  the  bosom  of  her  client,  and  her  client  is  acquitted." 

"  Monseigneur  shows  at  least  that  he  has  learnt  to  profit  by 
my  humble  instructions  in  the  classics,"  said  Dubois. 

The  Duke  did  not  answer.  I  turned  my  eyes  to  some  draw- 
ings on  the  table — I  expressed  my  admiration  of  them.  "  They 
are  mine,"  said  the  Regent.  "Ah  !  I  should  have  been  much 
more  accomplished  as  a  private  gentleman  than  I  fear  I  ever 
shall  be  as  a  public  man  of  toil  and  business.  Business — bah  ! 
But  Necessity  is  the  only  real  sovereign  in  the  world,  the  only 
despot  for  whom  there  is  no  law.  What  !  are  you  going 
already.  Count  Devereux?" 

"  Monseigneur's  anti-room  is  crowded  with  less  fortunate 
persons  than  myself,  whose  sins  of  envy  and  covetousness  I  am 
now  answerable  for." 

"  Ah — well !  I  must  hear  the  poor  devils  ;  the  only  pleasure 
I  have  is  in  seeing  how  easily  I  can  make  them  happy.  Would 
to  heaven,  Dubois,  that  one  could  govern  a  great  kingdom  only 
by  fair  words  !  Count  Devereux,  you  have  seen  me  to-day  as 
my  acquaintance  ;  see  me  again  as  my  petitioner.  Bon  jour^ 
Aionsieur." 

And  I  retired,  very  well  pleased  with  my  reception  :  from 
t1iat  time,  indeed,  during  the  rest  of  my  short  stay  at  Paris,  the 
Prince  honored  me  with  his  especial  favor.  But  I  have  dwelt 
too  long  on  my  sojourn  at  the  French  court.  The  persons  whom 
I  have  described,  and  who  alone  made  that  sojourn  memora- 
ble, must  be  my  apology. 

One  day  I  was  honored  by  a  visit  from  the  Abbe  Dubois. 
After  a  short  conversation  upon  indifferent  things,  he  accosted 
me  thus  : 

"  You  are  aware,  Count  Devereux,  of  the  partiality  which 
the  Regent  has  conceived  towards  you.     Fortunate  would  it  be 

*  Example  is  often  but  a  deceitful  mirror  ;  where  sometimes  one  destroys  himself,  while 
another  comes  off  safe  ;  and  where  one  pcrLshes,  another  is  preserved, 


DEVEREUX.  269 

for  that  Prince"  (here  Dubois  elevated  his  brows  with  an  iron- 
ical and  arch  expression),  "so  good  by  disposition,  so  injured 
by  example,  if  his  partiality  had  been  more  frequently  testified 
towards  gentlemen  of  your  merit.  A  mission  of  considerable 
importance,  and  one  demanding  great  personal  address,  gives 
his  Royal  Highness  an  opportunity  of  testifying  his  esteem  for 
you.  He  honored  me  with  a  conference  on  the  subject  yester- 
day, and  has  now  commissioned  me  to  explain  to  you  the  tech- 
nical objects  of  this  mission,  and  to  offer  to  you  the  honor  of 
undertaking  it.  Should  you  accept  the  proposals,  you  will  wait 
upon  his  highness  before  his  levee  to-morrow." 

Dubois  then  proceeded,  in  the  clear,  rapid  manner  peculiar 
to  him,  to  comment  on  the  state  of  Europe.  "For  France," 
said  he,  in  concluding  his  sketch,  "  peace  is  absolutely  neces- 
.«-ary.  A  drained  treasury,  an  exhausted  country,  require  it. 
You  see,  from  what  I  have  said,  that  Spain  and  England  are  the 
principal  quarters  from  which  we  are  to  dread  hostilities.  Spain 
we  must  guard  against — England  we  must  propitiate  ;  the  latter 
object  is  easy  in  England  in  any  case,  whether  James  or  George 
be  uppermost.  For  whoever  is  king  in  England  will  have  quite 
enough  to  do  at  home  to  make  him  agree  willingly  enough  to 
peace  abroad.  The  former  requires  a  less  simple  and  a  more 
enlarged  policy.  I  fear  the  ambition  of  the  Queen  of  Spain, 
and  the  turbulent  genius  of  her  minion  Alberoni.  We  must 
fortify  ourselves  by  new  forms  of  alliance,  at  various  courts, 
which  shall  at  once  defend  us  and  intimidate  our  enemies. 
We  wish  to  employ  some  nobleman  of  ability  and  address,  on 
a  secret  mission  to  Russia — will  you  be  that  person  ?  Your 
absence  from  Paris  will  be  but  short — you  will  see  a  very  droll 
country,  and  a  very  droll  sovereign  ;  you  will  return  hither, 
doubly  the  rage  and  with  a  just  claim  to  more  important  em- 
ployment hereafter.  What  say  you  to  the  proposal  ?" 
"I  must  hear  more,"  said  I,  "before  I  decide." 
The  Abbe  renewed.  It  is  needless  to  repeat  all  the  particu- 
lars of  the  commission  that  he  enumerated.  Suffice  it  that  after 
a  brief  consideration,  I  accepted  the  honor  proposed  to  me. 
The  Abbe  wished  me  joy,  relapsed  into  his  ordinary  strain  of 
coarse  levity  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  reminding  me  that  I 
was  to  attend  the  Regent  on  the  morrow,  departed.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  in  the  mind  of  that  subtle  and  crafty  ecclesias- 
tic, with  whose  manoeuvres  private  intrigues  were  always  blended 
with  public,  this  offer  of  employment  veiled  a  desire  to  banish 
me  from  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  good-natured  Regent, 
whose  favor  the  aspiring  Abbe  wished  at  that  exact  moment  ex- 


2jro  DEVEREUX. 

clusively  to  monopolize.  Mere  men  of  pleasure  he  knew  would 
not  interfere  with  his  aims  upon  the  Prince  ;  mere  men  of  busi- 
ness still  less  :  but  a  man  wlio  was  thought  to  combine  the  ca- 
pacities of  both,  and  who  was  moreover  distinguished  by  the 
Regent,  he  deemed  a  more  dangerous  rival  than  the  inestima- 
ble person  thus  suspected  really  was. 

However,  I  cared  little  for  the  honest  man's  motives.  Ad- 
venture to  me  had  always  greater  charms  than  dissipation,  and 
it  was  far  more  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  my  ambition,  to  win 
distinction  by  any  honorable  method,  than  by  favoritism  at  a 
court,  so  hollow,  so  unprincipled,  and  so  grossly  licentious  as 
that  of  the  Regent.  There  to  be  the  most  successful  courtier 
was  to  be  the  most  amusing  profligate.  Alas,  when  the  heart  is 
away  from  its  objects,  and  the  taste  revolts  at  its  excess,  Pleasure 
is  worse  than  palling — it  is  a  torture  ! — and  the  devil  in  Jonson's 
play  did  not  perhaps  greatly  belie  the  truth  when  he  averred 
**  that  the  pains  in  his  native  country  were  pastimes  to  the  life 
of  a  person  of  Fashion." 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  received  me  the  next  morning  with 
more  than  his  wonted  bonhofiiie.  What  a  pity  that  so  good- 
natured  a  prince  should  have  been  so  bad  a  man  !  He  enlarged 
more  easily  and  carelessly  than  his  worthy  preceptor  had  done 
upon  the  several  points  to  be  observed  in  my  mission — then 
condescendingly  told  me  he  was  very  sorry  to  lose  me  from  his 
court,  and  asked  me,  at  all  events,  before  I  left  Paris,  to  be  a 
guest  at  one  of  his  select  suppers.  I  appreciated  this  honor  at 
its  just  value.  To  these  suppers  none  were  asked  but  the 
Prince's  chums,  or  roues,^  as  he  was  pleased  to  call  them.  As, 
entre  nous,  these  chums  were  for  the  most  part  the  most  good- 
for-nothing  people  in  the  kingdom,  I  could  not  but  feel  highly 
flattered  at  being  deemed,  by  so  deep  a  judge  of  character  as 
the  Regent,  wortliy  to  join  them.  I  need  not  say  that  tlie  in- 
vitation was  eagerly  accepted,  nor  that  I  left  Philippe  le  D^bon- 
naire  impressed  with  the  idea  of  his  being  the  most  admirable  per- 
son in  Europe.  What  a  fool  a  great  man  is  if  he  does  not  study 
to  be  affable— weigh  a  prince's  condescension  in  one  scale,  and 
all  the  cardinal  virtues  in  the  other,  and  the  condescension  will 
outweigh  them  all  !  The  Regent  of  France  ruined  his  country 
as  much  as  he  well  could  do,  and  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  when 
he  died  ! 

A  day  had  now  effected  a  change — a  great  change  in  my  fate. 

*  The  term  ro7iS,  now  so  comprehensive,  was  first  given  by  the  Regent  to  a  select  num- 
ber of  his  friends  ;  according  to  them,  because  they  would  be  broken  on  the  wheel  for  h>« 
5^e  ;  according  to  himself,  betause  they  deserved  to  be  so  broken,— Ed, 


1)EVereUx.  i^i 

A  new  court — a  new  theatre  of  action — a  new  walk  of  ambition, 
were  suddenly  opened  to  me.  Nothing  could  be  more  promis- 
ing than  my  first  employment — nothing  could  be  more  pleas- 
ing, th.an  the  anticipation  of  change.  "I  must  force  myself,  to  be 
agreeable  to-night,"  said  I,  as  I  dressed  for  the  Regent's  sup- 
per. "  I  must  leave  behind  me  the  remembrance  of  a  bon  mot, 
or  I  shall  be  forgotten." 

And  I  was  right.  In  that  whirlpool,  the  capital  of  France, 
everything  sinks  but  wit — that  is  always  on  the  surface,  and  we 
must  cling  to  it  with  a  firm  grasp,  if  we  would  not  go  down  to — 
"the  deep  oblivion." 

CHAPTER  X. 
Royal  Exertions  for  the  Good  of  the  People, 

What  a  singular  scene  was  that  private  supper  with  the 
Regent  of  France  and  his  rou/s !  The  party  consisted  of 
twenty  :  nine  gentlemen  of  the  court  besides  myself,  four  men 
of  low  rank  and  character — but  admirable  buffoons — and  six 
ladies,  such  ladies  as  the  Duke  loved  best — witty,  lively,  sar- 
castic, and  good  for  nothing. 

De  Chatran  accosted  me. 

"yi?  suisravi,nion  cher  Monsieur  Devereux"  said  he  gravely, 
"  to  see  you  in  such  excellent  company — you  must  be  a  little 
surprised  to  find  yourself  here  !  " 

"  Not  at  all !  every  scene  is  worth  one  visit.  He,  my  good 
Monsieur  Chatran,  who  goes  to  the  House  of  Correction  once 
is  a  philosopher — he  who  goes  twice  is  a  rogue  ! " 

"  Thank  you,  Count,  what  am  I  then — I  have  been  here 
twenty  times?  " 

"  Why,  I  will  answer  you  with  a  story.  The  soul  of  a  Jesuit 
one  night,  when  its  body  was  asleep,  wandered  down  to  the 
lower  regions  ;  Satan  caught  it,  and  was  about  to  consign  it  to 
some  appropriate  place  ;  the  soul  tried  hard  to  excuse  itself  : 
you  know  what  a  cunning  thing  a  Jesuit's  soul  is  !  '  Monsieur 
Satan,' said  the  spirit;  'no  king  should  punish  a  traveller  as 
he  would  a  native.  Upon  my  honor,  I  am  merely  here  en 
voyageur.'  'Go,  then,'  said  Satan,  and  the  soul  flew  back  to 
its  body.  But  the  Jesuit  died,  and  came  to  the  lower  regions 
'a  second  time.  He  was  brought  before  his  Satanic  majesty, 
and  made  the  same  excuse.  '  No,  no,'  cried  Beelzebub  ; 
'  once  here  is  to  be  only  ie  diable  voyageur — twice  here,  and  you 
are  le  diable  tout  de  bon!  " 


2^2  DEVEREtJX. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  said  Chatran,  laughing :  "I  then  am  the 
diable  tout  de  bon .'  'tis  well  I  am  no  worse;  for  we  reckon  the 
rouis  a  devilish  deal  worse  than  the  very  worst  of  the  devils — 
but  see,  the  Regent  approaches  us." 

And,  leaving  a  very  pretty  and  gay-looking  lady,  the  Regent 
sauntered  towards  us.  It  was  in  walking,  by  the  by,  that  he 
lost  all  the  grace  of  his  mien.  I  don't  know,  however,  that 
one  wishes  a  great  man  to  be  graceful,  so  long  as  he's  familiar. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Devereux  !  "  said  he,  "  we  will  give  you 
some  lessons  in  cooking  to-night — we  shall  show  you  how  to 
provide  for  yourself  in  that  barbarous  country  which  you  are 
about  to  visit.     Tout  voyageur  doit  tout  savoir  !  " 

"  A  very  admirable  saying  ;  which  leads  me  to  understand 
that  Monseigneur  has  been  a  great  traveller,"  said  I. 

"  Ay,  in  all  things  and  a//  places — eh.  Count !  "  answered 
the  Regent,  smiling  ;  "  but,"  here  he  lowered  his  voice  a  little, 
'■  I  have  never  yet  learned  how  you  came  so  opportunely  to 
our  assistance  that  night.  Dieu  tne  damne  !  but  it  reminds  me 
of  the  old  story  of  the  two  sisters  meeting  at  a  gallant's  house. 
'  Oh,  sister,  how  came  you  here  ? '  said  one,  in  virtuous  amaze- 
ment. ^  del !  ma  scBur /'  cries  the  other;  'what  brought 
you  ;  '  "  * 

"  Monseigneur  is  pleasant,"  said  I,  laughing  ;  "  but  a  man 
does  now  and  then  (though  I  own  it  is  very  seldom)  do  a  good 
action,  without  having  previously  resolved  to  commit  a  bad 
one !  " 

"  I  like  your  parenthesis,"  cried  the  Regent,  "  it  reminds  me 
of  my  friend  St.  Simon,  who  thinks  so  ill  of  mankind,  that  I 
asked  him  one  day,  whether  it  was  possible  for  him  to  despise 
anything  more  than  men.?  'Yes,'  said  he,  with  a  low  bow, 
'women  ! ' " 

"  His  experience,"  said  I,  glancing  at  the  female  part  of  the 
coterie,  "was,  I  must  own,  likely  to  lead  him  to  that  opinion." 

"  None  of  your  sarcasms.  Monsieur,"  cried  the  Regent. 
"  L' amusement  est  un  des  besoins  des  thomme — as  I  hear  young 
Arouet  very  pithily  said  the  other  day  ;  and  we  owe  gratitude 
to  whomsoever  it  may  be  that  supplies  that  want.  Now,  you 
will  agree  with  me  that  none  supply  it  like  women  ;  therefore 
we  owe  them  gratitude — therefore  we  must  not  hear  them 
abused.     Logically  proved,  1  think  ! " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  I,  "  it  is  a  pleasure  to  find  they  have  so 
able  an  advocate ;  and  that  your  Highness  can  so  well  apply 

*  The  reader  will  remember  a  better  version  of  this  anecdote  in  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  the  English  comedies. — Ed. 


DEVEREUX.  275 

to  yourself  both  the  assertions  in  the  motto  of  the  great  master 
of  fortification,  Vauban — 'I  destroy,  but  I  defend.'  " 

"Enough,"  said  the  duke  gayly,  "  now  to  our  fortifications" ; 
and  he  moved  away  towards  the  women ;  I  followed  the  royal 
example ;  and  soon  found  myself  seated  next  to  a  pretty,  and 
very  small  woman.  We  entered  into  conversation  ;  and,  when 
once  begun,  my  fair  companion  took  care  that  it  should  not 
cease,  without  a  miracle.  By  the  goddess  Facundia,  what 
volumes  of  words  issued  from  that  little  mouth!  and  on  all 
subjects  too  !  church — state — law — politics — play-houses — • 
lampoons — lace — liveries — kings — queens — roturiers — beggars 
— you  would  have  thought,  had  you  heard  her,  so  vast  was  her 
confusion  of  all  things,  that  chaos  had  come  again.  Our  royal 
host  did  not  escape  her.  "  You  never  before  supped  here  en 
famille,"  said  she, — "  Mon  Dieu  !  it  will  do  your  heart  good 
to  see  how  much  the  Regent  will  eat.  He  has  such  an 
appetite — you  know  he  never  eats  any  dinner,  in  order  to  eat 
the  more  at  supper.  You  see  that  little  dark  woman  he  is 
talking  to  ? — well,  she  is  Madame  de  Parabere — he  calls  her  his 
little  black  crow — was  there  ever  such  a  pet  name  ?  Can  you 
guess  why  he  likes  her  ?  Nay,  never  take  the  trouble  of  think- 
ing— I  will  tell  you  at  once — simply  because  she  eats  and 
drinks  so  much.  Parole  d'honneztr,  'tis  true.  The  Regent 
says  he  likes  sympathy  in  all  things  ! — is  it  not  droll  ?  What  a 
hideous  old  man  is  that  Noce — his  face  looks  as  if  it  had 
caught  the  rainbow.  That  impudent  fellow  Dubois  scolded 
him  for  squeezing  so  many  louis  out  of  the  good  Regent.  The 
yellow  creature  attempted  to  deny  the  fact.  *  Nay/  cried 
Dubois,  *  you  cannot  contradict  me  ;  I  see  their  very  ghosts  in 
your  face.'  " 

While  my  companion  was  thus  amusing  herself,  Noc^,  uncon- 
scious of  her  panegyric  on  his  personal  attractions,  joined  us. 

"Ah  !  my  dear  Noce,"  said  the  lady,  most  affectionately, 
"  how  well  you  are  looking  !  I  am  delighted  to  see  you." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  said  Noce,  "for  I  have  to  inform  you 
that  your  petition  is  granted  ;  your  husband  will  have  the 
place.  " 

"  Oh,  how  eternally  grateful  I  am  to  you  !  "  cried  the  lady 
in  an  extasy  ;  "my  poor,  dear  husband  will  be  so  rejoiced.  I 
wish  I  had  wings  to  fly  to  him  !  " 

The  gallant  Noce  uttered  a  compliment — I  thought  myself 
de  trop^  and  moved  away.     I  again  encountered  Chatran. 

"  I  overheard  your  conversation  with  Madame  la  Marquise," 
said  he,  smiling ;  "  she  has  a  bitter  tongue — has  she  not  ? " 


^y4  DEVEREUX, 

"  Very  !  how  she  abused  the  poor  rogue  Noce  !  '* 

"  Yes,  and  yet  he  is  her  lover  !  " 

"  Her  lover  ! — you  astonish  me  ;  why,  she  seemed  almost 
fond  of  her  husband — the  tears  came  in  her  eyes  when  she 
spoke  of  him." 

"She  is  fond  of  him  !  "  said  Chatran  drily.  "  She  loves  the 
ground  he  treads  on — it  is  precisely  for  that  reason  she  favors 
Noce;  she  is  never  happy  but  when  she  is  procuring  something 
pour  son  cher  bon  mari.  She  goes  to  spend  a  week  at  Noce's 
country-house,  and  writes  to  her  husband,  with  a  pen  dipped 
in  her  blood,  saying,'  My  heart  is  with  thee  !  *" 

"Certainly,"  said  I,  "France  is  the  land  of  enigmas;  the 
sphynx  must  have  been  a  Parisienne.  And  when  Jupiter  made 
man,  he  made  two  natures  utterly  distinct  from  one  another. 
One  was  Human  nature,  and  the  other  French  nature  !  " 

At  this  moment  supper  was  announced.  We  all  adjourned 
to  another  apartment,  where,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  observed 
the  cloth  laid — the  sideboard  loaded — the  wines  ready,  but 
nothing  to  eat  on  the  table  !  A  Madame  de  Savori,  who  was 
next  me,  noted  my  surprise. 

"What  astonishes  you,  Monsieur?"  said  she. 

''''Nothing,  Madame  !"  said  I,  "that  is,  the  absence  of  <?// 
things." 

"What  !  you  expected  to  see  supper?" 

"I  own  my  delusion — I  did." 

"It  is  not  cooked  yet  !" 

"  Oh  !  well,  I  can  wait ! " 

"  And  officiate  too  ! "  said  the  lady  ;  "  in  a  word,  this  is 
one  of  the  Regent's  cooking  nights." 

Scarcely  had  I  received  this  explanation,  before  there  was  a 
general  adjournment  to  an  inner  apartment,  where  all  the  nec- 
essary articles  for  cooking  were  ready  to  our  hand. 


"  The  Reger.t  led  the  way, 
To  light  us  to  our  prey," 


and,  with  an  irresistible  gravity  and  importance  of  demeanor, 
entered  upon  the  duties  of  chef.  In  a  very  short  time  we  were 
all  engsged.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  zest  with  which  every 
one  seemed  to  enter  into  the  rites  of  the  kitchen.  You  would 
have  imagined  they  had  been  born  scullions,  they  handled  the 
batterie  de  cuisine  so  naturally.  As  for  me,  I  sought  protection 
with  Madame  de  Savori  ;  and  as,  fortunately,  she  was  very 
deeply  skilled  in  the  science,  she  had  occasion  to  employ  me 


CEVEREUJt.  275 

in  many  minor  avocations  which  her  experience  taught  her 
would  not  be  above  my  comprehension. 

After  we  had  spent  a  certain  time  in  this  dignified  occupa- 
tion, we  returned  to  the  sailed,  manner.  The  attendants  phiced 
the  dishes  on  the  table,  and  we  all  fell  to.  Whether  out  of 
self-love  to  their  own  performances,  or  complaisance  to  the  per- 
formances of  others,  I  cannot  exactly  say,  but  certain  it  is  that 
all  the  guests  acquitted  themselves  a  mcrvcille  j  you  would  not 
have  imagined  the  Regent  the  only  one  who  had  gone  without 
dinner  to  eat  the  more  at  supper.  Even  that  devoted  wife  to 
her  cher  bon  mart,  who  had  so  severely  dwelt  upon  the  good 
Regent's  infirmity,  occupied  herself  with  an  earnestness  that 
would  have  seemed  almost  wolf-like  in  a  famished  grenadier. 

Very  silent  indeed  was  the  conversation  till  the  supper  was 
nearly  over;  then  the  effects  of  the  wine  became  more  percep- 
tible The  Regent  was  the  first  person  who  evinced  that  he 
had  ate  suflficiently  to  be  able  to  talk.  Utterly  dispensing  with 
the  slightest  veil  of  reserve  or  royalty,  he  leant  over  the  table, 
and  poured  forth  a  whole  tide  of  jests.  The  guests  then  began 
to  think  it  was  indecorous  to  stuff  themselves  any  more,  and, 
as  well  as  they  were  able,  they  followed  their  host's  example. 
But  the  most  amusing  personages  were  the  buffoons;  they  mim- 
icked, and  joked,  and  lampooned,  and  lied  as  if  by  inspiration. 
As  the  bottle  circulated,  and  the  talk  grew  louder,  the  lampoon- 
ing and  the  lying  were  not,  however,  confined  to  the  buffoons. 
On  the  the  contrary,  the  best-born  and  best-bred  people  seemed 
to  excel  the  most  in  those  polite  arts.  Every  person  who 
boasted'a  fair  name,  or  a  decent  reputation  at  court,  was  seized, 
condemned,  and  mangled  in  an  instant.  And  how  elaborately 
the  good  folks  slandered  !  It  was  no  hasty  word  and  flippant 
repartee  which  did  the  business  of  the  absent — there  was  a 
precision,  a  polish,  a  labor  of  malice,  which  showed  that  each 
person  had  brought  so  many  reputations  already  cut  up.  The 
good-natured  convivialists  differed  from  all  other  backbiters 
that  I  have  ever  met,  in  the  same  manner  as  the  toads  of  Suri- 
nam differ  from  all  other  toads,  viz.:  their  venomous  offspring 
were  not  half-formed,  misshapen  tadpoles  of  slander,  but 
sprung  at  once  into  life — well  shaped  and  fully  developed. 

"  C/iantons !"  cried,  the  Regent,  whose  eyes,  winking  and 
Tolling,  gave  token  of  his  approaching  that  state  which  equals 
the  beggar  to  the  king,  "let  us  have  a  song.  Noce,  lift  up 
thy  voice,  and  let  us  hear  what  the  tokay  has  put  into  thy 
head ! " 

Noce  obeyed,  and  sang  as  men  half  drunk  generally  do  sing. 


276  DEVEREUX. 

"C?  Ciel!"  whispered  the  malicious  Savori,  "what  a  hideous 
screech — one  would  think  he  had  iur  tied  his  face  into  a  voice!  " 

^'  Bravissimo  /"  cried  the  duke,  when  his  guest  had  ceased, — 
"  what  happy  people  we  are  !  Our  doors  are  locked — not  a 
soul  can  disturb  us — we  have  plenty  of  wine — we  are  going  to 
get  drunk — and  we  have  all  Paris  to  abuse  !  what  were  you 
saying  of  Marshal  Villars,  my  little  Parabere  ?  " 

And  pounce  went  the  little  Parabere  upon  the  unfortunate 
marshal.  At  last,  slander  had  a  respite — nonsense  began  its 
reign — the  full  inspiration  descended  upon  the  orgies — the 
good  people  lost  the  use  of  their  faculties.  Noise — clamor, 
uproar,  broken  bottles,  falling  chairs,  and  (I  grieve  to  say)  their 
occupants  falling  too — conclude  the  scene  of  the  royal  supper. 
Let  us  drop  the  curtain. 


CHAPTER  XL 
An  Interview. 

I  WENT  a  little  out  of  my  way,  on  departing  from  Paris,  to 
visit  Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  at  that  time  was  in  the  country. 
l"here  are  some  men  whom  one  never  really  sees  in  capitals  ; 
one  sees  their  masks,  not  themselves ;  Bolingbroke  was  one. 
It  was  in  retirement,  however  brief  it  might  be,  that  his  true 
nature  expanded  itself,  and,  weary  of  being  admired,  he  al- 
lowed one  to  love,  and  even  in  the  wildest  course  of  his  earlier 
excesses,  to  respect  him.  My  visit  was  limited  to  a  few  hours, 
but  it  made  an  indelible  impression  upon  me. 

"  Once  more,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  garden 
of  his  temporary  retreat,  "once  more  you  are  in  your  element; 
minister  and  statesman  of  a  prince,  and  chief  supporter  of  the 
great  plans  which  are  to  restore  him  to  his  throne." 

A  slight  shade  passed  over  Bolingbroke's  fine  brow.  "  To 
you  my  constant  friend,"  said  he,  "to  you — who  of  all  my 
friends  alone  remained  true  in  exile,  and  unshaken  by  misfor- 
tune— to  you  I  will  confide  a  secret  that  I  would  entrust  to  no 
otlier.  I  repent  me  already  of  having  espoused  this  cause.  I 
did  so  while  yet  the  disgrace  of  an  unmerited  attainder  tin- 
gled in  my  veins  ;  while  I  was  in  the  full  tide  of  those  warm 
passions  which  have  so  often  misled  me.  Myself  attainted — 
the  best  beloved  of  my  associates  in  danger — my  party  deserted, 
and  seemingly  lost  but  for  some  bold  measure  such  as  then  of- 
fered ;  these  were  all  that  I  saw.     I  listened  eagerly  to  repre- 


iJEVEkEtfX.  277 

sentations  I  now  find  untrue ;  and  I  accepted  that  rank  and 
power  from  one  prince  which  were  so  rudely  and  gallingly  torn 
from  me  by  another.  I  perceive  that  I  have  acted  imprudently, 
but  what  is  done,  is  done ;  no  private  scruples,  no  private  in- 
terest, shall  make  me  waver  in  a  cause  that  I  have  once 
pledged  myself  to  serve  ;  and  if  I  can  do  aught  to  make  a  weak 
cause  powerful,  and  a  divided  party  successful,  I  will ;  but, 
Devereux,  you  are  wrong,  this  is  not  my  element.  Ever  in  the 
paths  of  strife  I  have  sighed  for  quiet ;  and,  while  most  eager 
in  the  pursuit  of  ambition,  I  have  languished  the  most  fondly  for 
content.  The  littleness  of  intrigue  disgusts  me,  and  while ///<? 
branches  of  my  power  soared  the  highest,  and  spread  with  the 
most  luxuriance,  it  galled  me  to  think  of  the  miry  soil  in 
which  that  power  was  condemned  to  strike  the  roots*  upon 
which  it  stood,  and  by  which  it  must  be  nourished." 

I  answered  Bolingbroke  as  men  are  wont  to  answer  statesmen 
who  complain  of  their  calling — half  in  compliment,  half  in 
contradiction,  but  he  replied  with  unusual  seriousness  : 

"  Do  not  think  I  affect  to  speak  thus  :  you  know  how  eagerly 
I  snatch  any  respite  from  state,  and  how  unmovedly  I  have 
borne  the  loss  of  prosperity  and  of  power.  You  are  now  about 
to  enter  those  perilous  paths  which  I  have  trod  for  years. 
Your  passions,  like  mine,  are  strong  !  Beware,  oh,  beware, 
how  you  indulge  them  without  restraint !  They  are  the  fires 
which  should  warm  ;  let  them  not  be  the  fires  which  destroy." 

Bolingbroke  paused  in  evident  and  great  agitation — he  re- 
sumed :  "'I  speak  strongly,  for  I  speak  in  bitterness;  1  was 
thrown  early  into  the  world  ;  my  whole  education  had  been 
framed  to  make  me  ambitious ;  it  succeeded  in  its  end.  I 
was  ambitious  and  of  all  success — success  in  pleasure,  suc- 
cess in  fame.  To  wean  me  from  the  former,  my  friends  per- 
suaded me  to  marry  ;  they  chose  my  wife  for  her  connections 
and  her  fortune,  and  I  gained  those  advantages  at  the  expense 
of  what  was  better  than  either — happiness !  You  know  how 
unfortunate  has  been  that  marriage,  and  how  young  I  was 
when  it  was  contracted.  Can  you  wonder  that  it  failed  in  the 
desired  effect  ?  Every  one  courted  me,  every  temptation  as- 
sailed me  ;  pleasure  even  became  more  alluring  abroad,  when  at 
home  I  had  no  longer  the  hope  of  peace  :  the  indulgence  of  one 
passion  begat  the  indulgence  of  another  ;  and  though  my  better 
sense  prompted  all  my  actions,  it  never  restrained  them  to  a 

*  Occasional  Writer. — No.  1.  The  Editor  has,  throughoiit  this  work,  usually,  but  not  in- 
variably, noted  the  passages  in  Bolingbroke's  writings,  in  which  there  occur  similss,  illus* 
tratious,  or  striking  thoughts,  correspondent  with  iliosc  in  the  text. 


2^8  DEVEREtJiC. 

proper  limit.  Thus  the  commencement  of  my  actions  has 
been  generally  prudent,  and  \\\t\x  continuation  has  deviated  into 
rashness,  or  plunged  into  excess.  Devereux,  I  have  paid  the 
forfeit  of  my  errors  with  a  terrible  interest — when  my  motives 
have  been  pure,  men  have  seen  a  fault  in  the  conduct,  and  calum- 
niated the  motives  ;  when  my  conduct  has  been  blameless,  men 
have  remembered  its  former  errors,  and  asserted  that  its  pres- 
ent goodness  only  arose  from  some  sinister  intention — thus  I 
have  been  termed  crafty,  when  I  was  in  reality  rash,  and  that 
was  called  the  inconsistency  of  interest  which  in  reality  was 
the  inconstancy  of  passion.*  I  have  reason,  therefore,  to  warn 
you  how  you  suffer  your  subjects  to  become  your  tyrants  ;  and 
ijelieve  me  no  experience  is  so  deep  as  that  of  one  who  has 
committed  faults,  and  who  has  discovered  their  causes." 

"  Apply,  my  dear  lord,  that  experience  to  your  future  career. 
You  remember  what  the  most  sagacious  of  all  pedants, f  even 
though  he  was  an  emperor,  has  so  happily  expressed — 'Repen- 
tance is  a  goddess,  and  the  preserver  of  those  who  have 
erred.'  " 

"  May  I  find  her  so  !  "  answered  Bolingbroke  ;  "but  as  Mon- 
taigne ox  Charron  \iOv\A  say  J  ....  'Everyman  is  at  once  his 
own  sharper  and  his  own  bubble.'  We  make  vast  prom- 
ises to  ourselves,  and  a  passion,  an  example,  sweeps  even  the 
remembrance  of  those  promises  from  our  minds.  One  is 
too  apt  to  believe  men  hypocrites,  if  their  conduct  squares  not 
with  their  sentiments;  but  perhaps  no  vice  is  more  rare,  for 
no  task  is  more  difficult,  than  systematic  hypocrisy:  and  the  same 
susceptibility  which  exposes  men  to  be  easily  impressed  by  the 
allurements  of  vice,  renders  them  at  heart  most  struck  by  the 
loveliness  of  virtue.  Thus  their  language  and  their  hearts 
worship  the  divinity  of  the  latter,  while  their  conduct  strays 
the  most  erringly  towards  the  false  shrines  over  which  the  for- 
mer presides.  Yes  !  I  have  never  been  blind  to  the  surpassing 
excellence  of  good.  The  still,  sweet  Avhispers  of  virtue  have 
been  heard,  even  when  the  storm   has  been  loudest,  and  the 

*  This  I  do  believe  to  be  the  real  (though  perhaps  it  is  a  new)  light  in  which  Lord  Bol- 
ingbroke's  life  and  character  are  to  be  viewed.  The  same  writers  who  tell  us  of  his  ungov- 
ernable passions,  always  prefix  to  his  name  the  epithets  "  designing,  cunning,  crafty," 
etc.  Now  I  will  venture  to  tell  these  historians  that,  if  they  had  studied  human  nature 
instead  of  partjr  pamphlets,  they  would  have  discovered  that  there  are  certain  incompati- 
ble qualities  which  can  never  be  united  in  one  ch.iracter— th.-\t  no  man  can  have  violent  pas- 
sions to  which  he  is  in  the  habit  o/ yieldimr,  and  be  systematically  crafty  and  designing. 
No  man  can  be  all  heat,  and  at  the  same  time  all  coolness;  but  opposite  causes  not  unoften 
produce  like  effects.     Passion   usually   makes   men   changeable,  so   sometimes  does  craft  ; 

hence  the  mistake  of  the  uninquiring  or   the  shallow;  and   hence  while' writes,  and 

— _■  compiles,  will  tbp  f-haracters  of  great  men  be  transmitted  to  posterity  misstated  and 
belied. — Kd. 

t  The  Emperor  Julian.    The  origrinal  pxpr»«!<>ion  is  paraphrased  in  the  text, 

J  "  Spirit  of  Patriotism." 


DEVEREUX.  279 

bark  of  Reason  been  driven  the  most  impetuously  over  the 
waves:  and,  at  this  moment,  I  am  impressed  with  a  foreboding 
that  sooner  or  later,  the  whispers  will  not  only  be  heard,  but 
their  suggestions  be  obeyed  ;  and  that,  far  from  courts  and  in- 
trigue, from  dissipation  and  ambition,  I  shall  learn,  in  retire- 
ment, the  true  principles  of  wisdom,  and  the  real  objects  of 
life." 

Thus  did  Bolingbroke  converse,  and  thus  did  I  listen,  till  it 
was  time  to  depart.  I  left  him  impressed  with  a  melancholy 
that  was  rather  soothing  than  distasteful.  Whatever  were  the 
faults  of  that  most  extraordinary  and  most  dazzling  genius,  no 
one  was  ever  more  candid*  in  confessing  his  own  errors.  A 
systematically  bad  man  either  ridicules  what  is  good,  or  disbe- 
lieves in  its  existence  ;  but  no  man  can  be  hardened  in  vice 
whose  heart  is  still  sensible  of  the  excellence  and  the  glory  of 
virtue. 


BOOK   V. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  Portrait. 

Mysterious  impulse  at  the  heart,  which  never  suffers  us  to 
be  at  rest,  which  urges  us  onward  as  by  an  unseen,  yet  irresist- 
ible law — human  planets  in  a  petty  orbit,  hurried  forever  and 
forever,  till  our  course  is  run  and  our  light  is  quenched — 
through  the  circle  of  a  dark  and  impenetrable  destiny  !  art 
thou  not  some  faint  forecast  and  type  of  our  wanderings  here- 
after ?  of  the  unslumbering  nature  of  the  soul  ?  of  the  everlast- 
ing progress  which  we  are  pre-doomed   to  make  through  the 

♦  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  letter  to  Sir  W.  Windham,  without  being  remarkably  struck 
with  the  dignified  and  yet  open  candor  which  it  displays.  The  same  candor  is  equally 
visible  in  whatever  relates  lo /limseiy,  \n  aXX  Lord  Bolingbroke's  writings  and  correspond- 
ence, and  yet  candor  is  the  last  attribute  usually  conceded  to  him.  But  never  was  there 
a  writer  whom  people  have  talked  of  more  and  read  less  ;  and  I  do  not  know  a  greatc  proof 
of  this  than  the  ever-repeated  assertion  (echoed  from  a  most  incompetent  authority)  of  the 
said  letter  to  Sir  W.  Windham  being  the  finest  of  all  Lord  Bolingbroke's  writings.  It  is  an 
article  of  great  value  to  the  history  of  the  times  ;  but,  as  to  all  the  higher  graces  and  quali- 
ties of  composition,  it  is  one  of  the  least  striking  (and  on  the  other  hand  it  is  one  of  the 
most  verbally  incorrect)  which  he  has  bequeathed  to  us  (the  posthumous  works  always  ex- 
cepted). I  am  not  sure  whether  the  most  brilliant  passages — the  most  noble  illustrations — 
the  most  profound  reflections,  and  most  useful  truths — to  be  found  in  all  his  writings,  are 
not  to  be  gathered  from  the  least  popular  of  them — such  at  shat  volume  entitled  "  Political 
Tracts."— Ep, 


28o  DEVEREUX. 

countless  steps,  and  realms,  and  harmonies  in  the  infinite  crea- 
tion ?  Oh,  often  in  my  rovings  have  I  dared  to  dream  so — 
often  have  I  soared  on  the  wild  wings  of  thought  above  the 
"  smoke  and  stir  "  of  this  dim  earth,  and  wrought,  from  the  rest- 
less visions  of  my  mind,  a  chart  of  the  glories  and  the  won- 
ders which  the  released  spirit  may  hereafter  visit  and  behold  ! 

What  a  glad  awakening  from  self, — what  a  sparkling  and 
fresh  draught  from  a  new  source  of  being, — what  a  wheel  within 
wheel,  animating,  impelling,  arousing  all  the  rest  of  this  animal 
machine,  is  the  first  excitement  of  Travel  !  The  first  free 
escape  from  the  bonds  of  the  linked  and  tame  life  of  cities  and 
social  vices, — the  jaded  pleasure  and  the  hollow  love,  t)ie  mo- 
notonous round  of  sordid  objects  and  dull  desires, — the  eternal 
chain  that  binds  us  to  things  and  beings,  mockeries  of  our- 
selves,— alike,  but  oh,  how  different !  the  shock  that  brings  us 
nearer  to  men  only  to  make  us  strive  against  them,  and  learn, 
from  the  harsh  contest  of  veiled  deceit  and  open  force,  that  the 
more  we  share  the  aims  of  others,  the  more  deeply  and  basely 
rooted  we  grow  to  the  littleness  of  self. 

I  passed  more  lingeringly  through  France  than  I  did  through 
the  other  portions  of  my  route.  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  in 
the  capital  to  be  anxious  to  survey  the  country.  It  was  then 
that  the  last  scale  which  the  magic  of  Louis  Quatorze  and  the 
memory  of  his  gorgeous  court  had  left  upon  the  moral  eye,  fell 
off,  and  I  saw  the  real  essence  of  that  monarch's  greatness, 
and  the  true  relics  of  his  reign.  I  saw  the  poor,  and  the  de- 
graded, and  the  racked,  and  the  priest-ridden,  tillers  and  peo- 
plers  of  the  soil,  which  made  the  substance  beneath  the  glitter- 
ing and  false  surface — the  body  of  that  vast  empire,  of  which  I 
had  hitherto  beheld  only  the  face,  and  that  darkly,  and  for 
the  most  part  covered  by  a  mask  ! 

No  man  can  look  upon  France,  beautiful  France,  her  rich 
soil,  her  temperate  yet  maturing  clime,  the  gallant  and  bold 
spirits  which  she  produces,  her  boundaries  so  indicated  and 
protected  by  nature  itself,  her  advantages  of  ocean  and  land,  of 
commerce  and  ngriculture,  and  not  wonder  that  her  prosperity 
should  be  so  bloated,  and  her  real  state  so  wretched  and  dis- 
eased. 

Let  England  draw  the  moral,  and  beware  not  only  of  wars 
which  exhaust,  but  of  governments  which  impoverish.  A 
waste  of  the  public  wealth  is  the  most  lasting  of  public  afflic- 
tions ;  and  "  the  treasury  which  is  drained  by  extravagance 
roust  be  refilled  by  crime."* 

♦  Tscitus, 


DEVEREUX.  251 

I  remember  one  beautiful  evening  an  accident  to  my  car- 
riage occasioned  my  sojourn  for  a  whole  afternoon  in  a  small 
village.  The  Curi!  honored  me  with  a  visit,  and  we  strolled, 
after  a  slight  repast,  into  the  hamlet.  The  priest  was  com- 
plaisant, quiet  in  manner,  and  not  ill  informed,  for  his  obscure 
station  and  scanty  opportunities  of  knowledge  ;  he  did  not 
seem,  however,  to  possess  the  vivacity  of  his  countrymen,  but 
was  rather  melancholy  and  pensive,  not  only  in  his  expression 
of  countenance,  but  his  cast  of  thought. 

"  You  have  a  charming  scene  here  ;  I  almost  feel  as  if  it  were 
a  sin  to  leave  it  so  soon." 

We  were,  indeed,  in  a  pleasant  and  alluring  spot  at  the  time 
I  addressed  this  observation  to  the  good  Cure.  A  little  rivulet 
emerged  from  a  copse  to  the  left  and  ran  sparkling  and  dimp- 
ling beneath  our  feet,  to  deck  with  a  more  living  verdure  the 
village  green,  which  it  intersected  with  a  winding,  nor  unmelo- 
dious  stream.  We  had  paused,  and  I  was  leaning  against  an  old 
and  solitary  chestnut  tree,  which  commanded  the  whole  scene. 
The  village  was  a  little  in  the  rear,  and  the  smoke  from  its  few 
chimneys  rose  slowly  to  the  silent  and  deep  skies,  not  wholly 
unlike  the  human  wishes,  which,  though  they  spring  from  the 
grossness  and  the  fumes  of  earth,  purify  themselves  as  they  as- 
cend to  Heaven,  And  from  the  village  (when  other  sounds, 
which  I  shall  note  presently,  were  for  an  instant  still),  came 
the  whoop  of  children,  mellowed,  by  distance,  into  a  confused, 
yet  thrilling  sound,  which  fell  upon  the  heart  like  a  voice  of 
our  gone  childhood  itself.  Before,  in  the  far  expanse,  stretched 
a  chain  of  hills  on  which  the  autumn  sun  sunk  slowly,  pouring 
its  yellow  beams  over  groups  of  peasantry,  which,  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  rivulet,  and  at  some  interval  from  us,  were 
scattered,  partly  over  the  green,  and  partly  gathered  beneath 
the  shade  of  a  little  grove.  The  former  were  of  the  young, 
and  those  to  whom  youth's  sports  are  dear,  and  were  dancing 
to  the  merry  music,  which  (ever  and  anon  blended  with  the 
laugh  and  the  tone  of  a  louder  jest)  floated  joyously  on 
our  ears.  The  fathers  and  matrons  of  the  hamlet  were  in- 
haling a  more  quiet  joy  beneath  the  trees,  and  I  involuntarily 
gave  a  tenderer  interest  to  their  converse  by  supposing  them 
to  sanction  to  each  other  the  rustic  loves  which  they  might 
survey  among  their  children. 

"Will  not  Monsieur  draw  nearer  to  the  dancers,"  said 
the  Cur6 ;  "  there  is  a  plank  thrown  over  the  rivulet  a  little 
lower  down?" 

"No!"  said  I,  "perhaps  they  are  seen  to  better  advantage 


282  DEVEREUX. 

where  we  are — what  mirth  will  bear  too  close  an  inspec- 
tion?" 

"  True,  sir,"  remarked  the  priest,  and  he  sighed. 

"Yet,"  I  resumed  musingly,  and  I  spoke  rather  to  myself 
than  to  my  companion,  "yet,  how  happy  do  they  seem  !  what  a 
revival  of  our  Arcadian  dreams  are  the  flute  and  the  dance,  the 
glossy  trees  all  glowing  in  the  autumn  sunset,  the  green  sod, 
and  the  murmuring  rill,  and  the  buoyant  laugh  startling  the 
satyr  in  his  leafy  haunts  ;  and  the  rural  loves  which  will  grow 
sweeter  still  than  the  sun  has  set,  and  the  twilight  has  made  the 
sigh  more  tender,  and  the  blush  of  a  mellower  hue  !  Ah,  why 
is  it  only  the  revival  of  a  dream  ?  why  must  it  be  only  an  in- 
terval of  labor  and  woe — the  brief  saturnalia  of  slaves — the 
green  resting  spot  in  a  dreary  and  long  road  of  travail  and  toil  ? " 

"You  are  the  first  stranger  I  have  met,"  said  the  Cure,  "who 
seems  to  pierce  beneath  the  thin  veil  of  our  Gallic  gayety  ;  the 
f?rst  to  whom  the  scene  we  now  survey  is  fraught  with  other  feel- 
ings than  a  belief  in  the  happiness  of  our  peasantry,  and  an  envy 
at  its  imagined  exuberance.  But  as  it  is  not  the  happiest  individ- 
uals, so  1  fear  it  is  not  the  happiest  nations,  that  are  the  gayest." 

I  looked  at  the  Cure  with  some  surprise.  "Your  remark  is 
deeper  than  the  ordinary  wisdom  of  your  tribe,  my  father,"  said  I. 

"  I  have  travelled  over  three  parts  of  the  globe,"  answered 
the  Cure;  "I  was  not  always  intended  for  what  I  am";  and 
the  priest's  mild  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden  light  that  as  sud- 
denly died  away.  "  Yes,  I  have  travelled  over  the  greater  part  of 
the  known  world,"  he  repeated,  in  a  more  quiet  tone,  "and  I 
have  noted  that  where  a  man  has  many  comforts  to  guard,  and 
many  rights  to  defend,  he  necessarily  shares  the  thought  and 
the  seriousness  of  those  who  feel  the  value  of  a  treasure  which 
they  possess,  and  whose  most  earnest  meditations  are  intent 
upon  providing  against  its  loss.  1  have  noted,  too,  that  the 
joy  produced  by  a  momentary  suspense  of  labor  is  naturally 
great,  in  proportion  to  the  toil ;  hence  it  is  that  no  European 
mirth  is  so  wild  as  that  of  the  Indian  slave,  when  a  brief  holi- 
day releases  him  from  his  task.  Alas  !  that  very  mirth  is  the 
strongest  evidence  of  the  weight  of  the  previous  chains  ;  even 
as,  in  ourselves,  we  find  the  happiest  moment  we  enjoy  is  that 
immediately  succeeding  the  cessation  of  deep  sorrow  to  the 
mind,  or  violent  torture  to  the  body."* 

*_  This  reflection,  if  true,  may  console  us  for  the  loss  of  those  village  dances  and  peasant 
hohdays  for  which  "merry  England"  was  once  celebrated.  The  loss  of  them  has  been 
ascribed  to  the  gloomy  influence  of  the  Puritans ;  but  it  has  never  occurred  to  the  good 
poets,  who  have  so  mourned  over  that  loss,  that  it  is  also  to  be  ascribed  to  the  Uoertj 
Whkh  thos?  Puritans  generalised^  if  they  did  npt  introduce.— Eo. 


UEVEREtJX.  2S3 

I  was  struck  by  this  observation  of  the  priest. 

**I  see  now,"  said  I,  ''that,  as  an  Englishman,  I  have  no  rea- 
son to  repine  at  the  proverbial  gravity  of  my  countrymen,  or  to 
envy  the  lighter  spirit  of  the  sons  of  Italy  and  France." 

"No,"  said  the  Cure,  "the  happiest  nations  are  those  in  whose 
people  you  witness  the  least  sensible  reverses  from  gayety  to 
dejection  ;  and  that  thought,  which  is  the  noblest  characteristic 
of  the  isolated  man,  is  also  that  of  a  people.  Freemen  are  seri- 
ous, they  have  objects  at  their  heart  worthy  to  engross  atten- 
tion. It  is  reserved  for  slaves  to  indulge  in  groans  at  one  mo- 
ment, and  laughter  at  another." 

"At  that  rate,"  said  I,  "the  best  sign  for  France  will  be  when 
the  gayety  of  her  sons  is  no  longer  a  just  proverb,  and  the  laugh- 
ing lip  is  succeeded  by  the  thoughtful  brow." 

We  remained  silent  for  several  minutes  ;  our  conversation 
had  shed  a  gloom  over  the  light  scene  before  us,  and  the  voice 
of  the  flute  no  longer  sounded  musically  on  my  ear.  I  pro- 
posed to  the  Cure  to  return  to  my  inn.  As  we  walked  slowly 
in  that  direction,  I  surveyed  my  companion  more  attentively 
than  I  had  hitherto  done.  He  was  a  model  of  masculine  vigor 
and  grace  of  form  ;  and,  had  I  not  looked  earnestly  upon  his 
cheek,  I  should  have  thought  him  likely  to  outlive  the  very  oaks 
around  the  hamlet  church  where  he  presided.  But  the  cheek 
was  worn  and  hectic,  and  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  keen  fire 
which  burns  at  the  deep  heart,  unseen,  but  unslaking,  would 
consume  the  mortal  fuel,  long  before  Time  should  even  have 
commenced  his  gradual  decay. 

"  You  have  travelled  then,  much,  sir,"  said  I,  and  the  tone  of 
my  voice  was  that  of  curiosity. 

The  good  Cure  penetrated  into  my  desire  to  hear  something 
of  his  adventures  ;  and  few  are  the  recluses  who  are  not  grati- 
fied by  the  interest  of  others,  or  who  are  unwilling  to  reward  it 
by  recalling  those  portionsof  life  most  cherished  by  themselves. 
Before  we  parted  that  night,  he  told  me  his  little  history.  He 
had  been  educated  for  the  army  ;  and  before  he  entered  the 
profession  he  had  seen  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor — loved  her — 
and  the  old  story — she  loved  him  again,  and  died  before  the  love 
passed  the  ordeal  of  marriage.  He  had  no  longer  a  desire  for 
glory,  but  he  had  for  excitement.  He  sold  his  little  property 
and  travelled,  as  he  had  said,  for  nearly  fourteen  years,  equally 
over  the  polished  lands  of  Europe,  and  the  far  climates,  where 
Truth  seems  fable,  and  Fiction  finds  her  own  legends  realized 
or  excelled. 

He  returned  home,   poor  in   pocket,  and  wearied   in  spirit. 


284  DEVEREUX. 

He  became  what  I  beheld  him.  "  My  lot  is  fixed  now,"  said  he 
in  conclusion  ;  "but  I  find  there  is  all  the  difference  between 
quiet  and  content ;  my  heart  eats  itself  away  here  ;  it  is  the 
moth  fretting  the  garment  laid  by,  more  than  the  storm  or  the 
fray  would  have  worn  it." 

I  said  something,  common-place  enough,  about  solitude,  and 
the  blessings  of  competence,  and  the  country.  The  Cur^  shook 
his  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer  ;  perhaps  he  did  wisely  in 
thinkingthe  feelings  are  ever  beyond  the  reach  of  a  stranger's  rea- 
soning. We  parted  more  affectionately  than  acquaintances  of  so 
shortatime  usually  do;  and  when  I  returned  from  Russia,  I 
stopped  at  the  village  on  purpose  to  inquire  after  him.  A  few 
months  had  done  the  work :  the  moth  had  already  fretted  away  the 
human  garment ;  and  I  walked  to  his  lowly  and  nameless  grave, 
and  felt  that  it  contained  the  only  quiet  in  which  monotony 
is  not  blended  with  regret ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  entrance  into  Petersburgh — a  Rencontre  with  an  inquisitive  and  mys- 
terious Stranger. — Nothing  like  Travel. 

It  was  certainly  like  entering  a  new  world  when  I  had  the 
frigid  felicity  of  entering  Russia.  I  expected  to  have  found 
Petersburgh  a  wonderful  city,  and  I  was  disappointed  ;  it  was 
a  wonderful  beginning  of  a  city,  and  that  was  all  I  ought  to 
have  expected.  But  never,  I  believe,  was  there  a  place  which 
there  was  so  much  difficulty  in  arriving  at :  such  winds — such 
climate — such  police  arrangements — arranged,  too,  by  such 
fellows  !  six  feet  high,  with  nothing  human  about  them,  but 
their  uncleanliness  and  ferocity  !  Such  vexatious  delays,  dif- 
ficulties, ordeals,  through  which  it  was  necessary  to  pass,  and 
to  pass,  too,  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  satisfaction  and  con- 
tent. By  the  Lord  !  one  would  have  imagined,  at  all  events, 
it  must  be  an  earthly  paradise,  to  be  so  arduous  of  access,  in- 
stead of  a  Dutch-looking  town,  with  comfortless  canals,  and 
the  most  terrible  climate  in  which  a  civilized  creature  was  ever 
frozen  to  death.  "  It  is  just  the  city  a  nation  of  bears  would 
build,  if  bears  ever  became  architects,"  said  I  to  myself,  as  I 
entered  the  northern  capital,  with  my  teeth  chattering,  and  my 
limbs  in  a  state  of  perfect  insensibility. 

My  vehicle  stopped  at  last,  at  a  hotel  to  which  I  had  been 
directed.  It  was  a  circumstance,  I  believe,  peculiar  to  Peters- 
burgh, that,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  none  of  its  streets  had  a 


DEVEREUX.  ^85 

name  ;  and  if  one  wanted  to  find  out  a  house,  one  was  forced  to  do 
so  by  oral  description.  A  pleasant  thing  it  was,  too,  to  stop  in 
the  middle  of  a  street  to  listen  to  such  descriptions  at  full 
length,  and  find  oneself  rapidly  becoming  ice  as  the  detail  pro- 
gressed. After  I  was  lodged,  thawed,  and  fed,  I  fell  fast  asleep, 
and  slept  for  eighteen  hours,  without  waking  once  ;  to  my  mind 
it  was  a  miracle  that  I  ever  woke  again. 

I  then  dressed  myself,  and,  taking  my  interpreter,  who  was  a 
Livonian,  a  great  rascal,  but  clever,  who  washed  twice  a  week, 
and  did  not  wear  a  beard  above  eight  inches  long,  I  put  my- 
self into  my  carriage,  and  went  to  deliver  my  letters  of  intro- 
duction. I  had  one  in  particular  to  the  Admiral  Apraxin  ;  and 
it  was  with  him  that  I  was  directed  to  confer,  previous  to  seek- 
ing an  interview  with  the  Emperor.  Accordingly  I  repaired  to 
his  hotel,  which  was  situated  on  a  sort  of  quay,  and  was  really, 
for  Petersburgh,  very  magnificent.  In  this  quarter,  then,  or  a 
little  later,  lived  about  thirty  officers  of  the  court.  General 
Jagoyinsky,  General  Cyernichoff ,  etc. ;  and  appropriately  enough, 
the  most  remarkable  public  building  in  the  vicinity  is  the  great 
slaughter-house — a  fine  specimen  that  of  practical  satire  ! 

On  endeavoring  to  pass  through  the  Admiral's  hall,  I  had  the 
mortification  of  finding  myself  rejected  by  his  domestics.  As 
two  men  in  military  attire  were  instantly  admitted,  I  thought 
this  a  little  hard  upon  a  man  who  had  travelled  so  far  to  see  his 
admiralship,  and  accordingly  hinted  my  indignation  to  Mr. 
Muscotofsky,  my  interpreter. 

"  You  are  not  so  richly  dressed  as  those  gentlemen,"  said  he. 

"  That  is  the  reason,  is  it?  " 

**  If  it  so  please  St.  Nicholas,  it  is ;  and,  besides,  those  gen- 
tlemen have  two  men  running  before  them,  to  cry,  '  Clear  the 
way  ! ' " 

"I  had  better,  then,  dress  myself  better,  and  take  two  avant 
couriers." 

"  If  it  so  please  St.  Nicholas." 

Upon  this  I  returned,  robed  myself  in  scarlet  and  gold,  took 
a  coiiple  of  lacqueys,  returned  to  Admiral  Apraxin's,  and  was 
admitted  in  an  instant.  Who  would  have  thought  these  sav- 
ages so  like  us  ?  Appearances,  you  see,  produce  realities  all 
over  the  world  ? 

The  Admiral,  who  was  a  very  great  man  at  court — though  he 
narrowly  escaped  Siberia,  or  the  knout,  some  time  after — was 
civil  enough  to  me  :  but  I  soon  saw  that,  favorite  as  he  was 
with  the  Czar,  that  great  man  left  but  petty  moves  in  the  grand 
chess-board  of  politics  to  be  played  by  any  but  himself :  and 


286  DEVEREUX. 

my  proper  plan  in  this  court  appeared  evidently  to  be  unlike 
that  pursued  in  most  others,  where  it  is  better  to  win  the  favor- 
ite than  the  prince.  Accordingly,  I  lost  no  time  in  seeking  an 
interview  with  the  Czar  himself,  and  readily  obtained  an  ap- 
pointment to  that  effect. 

On  the  day  before  the  interview  took  place,  I  amused  my- 
self with  walking  over  the  city,  gazing  upon  its  growing  grand- 
eur, and  casting,  in  especial,  a  wistful  eye  upon  the  fortress  or 
citadel,  which  is  situated  in  an  island,  surrounded  by  the  city  ; 
and  upon  the  building  of  which  more  than  one  hundred  thous- 
and men  are  supposed  to  have  perished.  So  great  a  sacrifice 
does  it  require  to  conquer  nature. 

While  1  was  thus  amusing  myself,  I  observed  a  man  in  a 
small  chaise  with  one  horse  pass  me  twice,  and  look  at  me 
very  earnestly.  Like  most  of  my  countrymen,  I  do  not  love  to 
be  stared  at  ;  however,  I  thought  it  belter  in  that  unknown 
country  to  change  my  intended  frown  for  a  good-natured  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  and  turned  away.  A  singular  sight 
now  struck  my  attention  ;  a  couple  of  men  with  beards  that 
would  have  hidden  a  cassowary  were  walking  slowly  along  in 
their  curious  long  garments,  and  certainly  (  I  say  it  reverently) 
disgracing  the  semblance  of  humanity,  when,  just  as  they  came 
by  a  gate,  two  other  men  of  astonishing  height  started  forth, 
each  armed  with  a  pair  of  shears.  Before  a  second  was  over, 
off  went  the  beards  of  the  first  two  passengers  ;  and  before  an- 
other second  expired,  off  went  the  skirts  of  their  garments 
too — I  never  saw  excrescences  so  expeditiously  lopped.  The 
two  operators,  who  preserved  a  profound  silence  during  this 
brief  affair,  then  retired  a  little,  and  the  mutilated  wanderers 
pursued  their  way  with  an  air  of  extreme  discomfiture. 

"Nothing  like  travel,  certainly  !  "  said  I  unconsciously  aloud. 

"  True  !  "  said  a  voice  in  English  behind  me.  I  turned,  and 
saw  the  man  who  had  noticed  me  so  earnestly  in  the  one-horse 
chaise.  He  was  a  tall,  robust  man,  dressed  very  plainly,  and 
even  shabbily,  in  a  green  uniform,  with  a  narrow  tarnished  gold 
lace  ;  and  I  judged  him  to  be  a  foreigner,  like  myself,  though 
his  accent  xnd  pronunciation  evidently  showed  that  he  was  not 
a  native  of  the  country  in  the  language  of  which  he  accosted  me. 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  he  again  ;  "  there  is  nothing  like 
travel !  " 

"And  travel,"  I  rejoined  courteously,  "in  those  places  where 
travel  seldom  extends.  '  \ave  only  been  six  days  at  Peters- 
burgh,  and,  till  I  came  hither,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  variety 
of  human  nature  or  the  power  of  human  genius.     But  will  you 


DEVEREUX.  2S7 

^Uow  me  to  ask  the  meaning  of  the  very  singular  occurrence 
We  have  just  witnessed  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  rejoined  the  man  with  a  broad,  strong  smile, 
"  nothing  but  an  attempt  to  make  men  out  of  brutes.  This 
custom  of  shaving  is  not,  thank  Heaven,  much  wanted  now — 
some  years  ago  it  was  requisite  to  have  several  stations  for 
barbers  and  tailors  to  perform  their  duties  in.  Now  this  is 
very  seldom  necessary  :  thosegentlemen  were  especially  marked 

out  for  the  operation.     By (and   here  the  man   swore  a 

hearty  English  and  somewhat  seafaring  oath,  which  a  little 
astonished  me  in  the  streets  of  Petersburgh),  I  wish  it  were  as 
easy  to  lop  off  all  old  customs  !  that  it  were  as  easy  to  clip  the 
beard  of  the  mind,  sir  !  Ha — ha  !  " 

'■  But  the  Czar  must  have  found  a  little  difficulty  in  effecting 
even  this  outward  amendment,  and  to  say  truth,  I  see  so  many 
beards  about  still  that  I  think  the  reform  has  been  more  par- 
tial than  universal." 

"  Ah,  those  are  the  beards  of  the  common  people ;  the  Czar 
leaves  those  for  the  present.     Have  you  seen  the  docks  yet  ?" 

"  No  :  I  am  not  sufficiently  a  sailor  to  take  much  interest  in 
them." 

"  Humph  !  humph  !  you  are  a  soldier,  perhaps?" 

"  I  hope  to  be  so  one  day  or  other — I  am  not  yet  ? " 

"  Not  yet  !  humph  !  there  are  opportunities  in  plenty  for 
those  who  wish  it — what  is  your  profession  then,  and  what  do 
you  know  best  ?  " 

I  was  certainly  not  charmed  with  the  honest  inquisitiveness 
of  the  stranger.  "  Sir,"  said  I,  "  sir,  my  profession  is  to  answer 
no  questions  ;  and  what  I  know  best  is — to  hold  my  tongue  !  " 

The  stranger  laughed  out.  "  Well,  well,  that  is  what  all 
Englishmen  know  best !"  said  he;  "but  don't  be  off  ended— 
if  you  will  come  home  with  me  I  will  give  you  a  glass  of  brandy  !  " 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  for  the  offer,  but  business  obliges 
me  to  decline  it — good-morning,  sir." 

"  Good-morning  !  "  answered  the  man,  slightly  moving  his 
hat,  in  answer  to  my  salutation. 

We  separated,  as  I  tiiought,  but  T  was  mistaken.  As  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  I  lost  my  way  in  endeavoring  to  return  home. 
While  I  was  interrogating  a  French  artisan,  who  seemed  in  a 
prodigious  hurry,  up  comes  my  inquisitive  friend  in  green  again. 
"  Ha !  you  have  lost  your  way — 1  can  put  you  into  it  better 
than  any  man  in  Petersburgh  !  " 

I  thought  it  right  to  accept  the  offer  ;  and  we  moved  on,  side 
by  side.     I  now  looked  pretty  attentively  at  my  gentleman.     1 


288  DEVEREUX. 

have  said  that  he  was  tall  and  stout — he  was  also  remarkably 
well-built,  and  had  a  kind  of  seaman's  ease  and  freedom  of 
gait  and  manner.  His  countenance  was  very  peculiar  ;  short, 
firm,  and  stron<;ly  marked  ;  a  small,  but  thick  mustachio  cov- 
ered his  upper  lip — the  rest  of  his  face  was  shaved.  His  mouth 
was  wide,  but  closed,  when  silent,  with  that  expression  of  iron 
resolution  which  no  feature  but  the  mouth  can  convey.  His 
eyes  were  large,  well-opened,  and  rather  stern ;  and  when, 
which  was  often  in  the  course  of  conversation,  he  pushed  back 
his  hat  from  his  forehead,  the  motion  developed  two  strong 
deep  wrinkles  between  the  eyebrows,  which  might  be  indica- 
tive either  of  thought  or  of  irascibility — perhaps  of  both.  He 
spoke  quick,  and  with  a  little  occasional  embarrassment  of 
voice,  which,  however,  never  communicated  itself  to  his  man- 
ner. He  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  a  perfect  acquaintance  with 
the  mazes  of  the  growing  city  ;  and,  every  now  and  then, 
stopped  to  say  when  such  a  house  was  built — whither  such  a 
Ktreet  was  to  lead,  «»tc.  As  each  of  these  details  betrayed  some 
^reat  triumph  over  natural  obstacles,  and  sometimes  over  na- 
tional prejudice,.  I  could  not  help  dropping  a  few  enthusiastic 
expressions  in  praise  of  the  genius  of  the  Czar.  The  man's 
•tyes  sparkled  as  he  heard  them. 

"ft  IS  easy  to  see,"  said  I,  "  that  you  sympathize  with  me, 
<ind  that  the  admiration  of  this  great  man  is  not  confined  to 
Englishmen.  How  little  in  comparison  seem  all  other  mon- 
^rchs  :  they  ruin  kingdoms — the  Czar  creates  one.  The  whole 
history  of  the  world  does  not  afford  an  instance  of  triumphs 
so  vast — so  important — so  glorious  as  his  have  been.  How  his 
subje':t3  should  adore  him  ! " 

"  No,"  said  the  stranger,  with  an  altered  and  thoughtful 
manner,  "  it  is  not  his  subjects,  but  their  posterity,  that  will 
appreciate  his  motives,  arid  forgive  him  for  wishing  Russia  to 
be  an  empire  of  men.  The  present  generation  may  sometimes 
be  laughed,  sometimes  forced,  out  of  their  more  barbarous 
habits  and  brute-like  customs,  but  they  cannot  be  reasoned  out 
of  them  ;  and  they  don't  love  the  man  who  attempts  to  do  it. 
Why,  sir,  I  question  whether  Ivan  IV.,  who  used  to  butcher  the 
4ogs  between  prayers  for  an  occupation,  and  between  meals 
for  an  appetite,  I  question  whether  his  memory  is  not  to  the 
full  as  much  loved  as  the  living  Czar.  I  know,  at  least,  that 
whenever  the  latter  attempts  a  reform,  the  good  Muscovites 
shrug  up  their  shoulders,  and  mutter,  '  We  did  not  do  these 
things  in  the  good  old  days  of  Ivan  IV.'  " 

"Ah  !  the  people  of  all  nations  are  wonderfully  attached  tO 


DEVEREUX.  289 

their  ancient  customs  ;  and  it  is  not  unfrequently  that  the  most 
stubborn  enemies  to  living  men  are  their  ancestors." 

"  Ha,  ha  ! — true — good  !  "  cried  the  stranger  ;  and  then, 
after  a  short  pause,  he  said  in  a  tone  of  deep  feelinj?  which  had 
not  hitherto  seemed  at  all  a  part  of  his  character,  "We  should 
do  that  which  is  good  to  the  human  race,  from  some  principle 
within,  and  should  not  therefore  abate  our  efforts  for  the  oppo- 
sition, the  rancor,  or  the  ingratitude  that  we  experience  with- 
out. It  will  be  enough  reward  for  Peter  I.,  if  hereafter,  when 
(in  that  circulation  of  knowledge  throughout  the  world  which 
I  can  compare  to  nothing  better  than  the  circulation  of  the 
blood  in  the  human  body)  the  glory  of  Russia  shall  rest,  not 
upon  the  extent  of  her  dominions,  but  that  of  her  civilization — 
not  upon  the  number  of  inhabitants,  embruted  and  besotted, 
but  the  number  of  enlightened,  prosperous,  and  free  men  ;  it 
will  be  enough  for  him,  if  he  be  considered  to  have  laid  the 
first  stone  of  that  great  change — if  his  labors  be  fairly  weighed 
against  the  obstacles  which  opposed  them — if,  for  his  honest 
and  unceasing  endeavor  to  improve  millions,  he  be  not  too 
severely  judged  for  offences  in  a  more  limited  circle — and  if, 
in  consideration  of  having  fought  the  great  battle  against  cus- 
tom, circumstances,  and  opposing  nature,  he  be  sometimes  for- 
given for  not  having  invariably  conquered  himself." 

As  the  stranger  broke  off  abruptly,  I  could  not  but  feel  a 
little  oppressed  by  his  words  and  the  energy  with  which  they 
were  spoken.  We  were  now  in  sight  of  my  lodging.  I  asked 
my  guide  to  enter  it ;  but  the  change  in  our  conversation 
seemed  to  have  unfitted  him  a  little  for  my  companionship. 

**  No,"  said  he,  "  I  have  business  now  :  we  shall  meet  again  ; 
what's  your  name  ? " 

"Certainly,"  thought  I,  "no  man  ever  scrupled  so  little  to 
ask  plain  questions":  however,  I  answered  him  truly  and 
freely. 

"  Devereux  ! "  said  he,  as  if  surprised  :  "  Ha  ! — well — we 
shall  meet  again.     Good-day." 


CHAPTER  HI. 
The  Czar — ^the  Czarina.  ^A  Feast  at  a  Russian  Nobleman's. 

The  next  day  I  dressed  myself  in  my  richest  attire  ;  and, 
according  to  my  appointment,  went  with  as  much  state  as  I 
could  command  to  the  Czar's  palace  (if  an  exceedingly  humble 


2  9° 


DEVEREUX. 


abode  can  deserve  so  proud  an  appellation).  Although  my 
mission  was  private,  I  was  a  little  surprised  by  the  extreme  sim- 
plicity and  absence  from  pomp  which  the  royal  residence  pre- 
sented. I  was  ushered  for  a  few  moments  into  a  paltry  ante- 
chamber, in  which  were  several  models  of  ships,  cannon,  and 
houses  ;  two  or  three  indifferent  portraits — one  of  King  Wil- 
liam III.,  another  of  Lord  Caermarthen.  I  was  then  at  once 
admitted  into  the  royal  presence. 

There  were  only  two  persons  in  the  room — one  a  female,  the 
other  a  man  ;  no  officers,  no  courtiers,  no  attendants,  none  of 
the  insignia  nor  the  witnesses  of  majesty.  The  female  was 
Catharine,  the  Czarina  ;  the  man  was  the  stranger  I  had  met 
the  day  before — and  Peter  the  Great.  I  was  a  little  startled  at 
the  identity  of  the  Czar  with  my  inquisitive  acquaintance. 
However,  I  put  on  as  assured  a  countenance  as  I  could. 
Indeed,  I  had  spoken  sufficiently  well  of  the  royal  person  to 
feel  very  little  apprehension  at  having  unconsciously  paid  so 
slight  a  respect  to  the  royal  dignity. 

"  Ho — ho  !  "  cried  the  Czar,  as  I  reverently  approached  him  ; 
"  I  told  you  we  should  meet  soon  !  "  and,  turning  round,  he 
presented  me  to  her  majesty.  That  extraordinary  woman 
received  me  very  graciously  ;  and,  though  I  had  been  a  spec- 
tator of  the  most  artificial  and  magnificent  court  in  Europe,  I 
must  confess  that  I  could  detect  nothing  in  the  Czarina's  air 
calculated  to  betray  her  having  been  the  servant  of  a  Lutheran 
minister  and  the  wife  of  a  Swedish  dragoon.  Whether  it  was 
that  greatness  was  natural  to  her,  or  whether  (which  was  more 
probable)  she  was  an  instance  of  the  truth  of  Suckling's  hack- 
neyed thought,  in  Brennoralt — *'  Success  is  a  rare  paint — hides 
all  the  ugUness." 

While  I  was  making  my  salutations,  the  Czarina  rose  very 
quietly,  and  presently,  to  my  no  small  astonishment,  brought 
me  with  her  own  hand,  a  tolerably  large  glass  of  raw  brandy. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  Lhate  so  much  as  brandy  ;  how- 
ever, I  swallowed  the  potation  as  if  it  had  been  nectar,  and  made 
some  fine  speech  about  it,  which  the  good  Czarina  did  not  seem 
perfectly  to  understand.  I  then,  after  a  few  preliminary  obser- 
vations, entered  upon  my  main  business  with  the  Czar.  Her 
Majesty  sat  at  a  little  distance,  but  evidently  listened  very 
attentively  to  the  conversation.  I  could  not  but  be  struck  with 
the  singularly  bold  and  strong  sense  of  my  royal  host.  There 
was  no  hope  of  deluding  or  misleading  him  by  diplomatic  sub- 
terfuge. The  only  way  by  which  that  wonderful  man  was  ever 
misled  was  through  his  passions.     His  reason  conquered  aii 


DEVEREUX.  291 

errors  but  those  of  temperament.  I  turned  the  conversation 
as  artfully  as  I  could  upon  Sweden  and  Charles  XII.  "  Hatred 
to  one  power,"  thought  I,  "may  produce  love  to  another  ;  and 
if  it  does,  the  child  will  spring  from  a  very  vigorous  parent." 
While  I  was  on  this  subject,  I  observed  a  most  fearful  convul- 
sion come  over  the  face  of  the  Czar — one  so  fearful  that  I 
involuntarily  looked  away.  Fortunate  was  it  that  I  did  so. 
Nothing  ever  enraged  him  more  than  being  observed  in  those 
constitutional  contortions  of  countenance  to  which  from  his 
youth  he  had  been  subjected. 

After  I  had  conversed  with  the  Czar  as  long  as  I  thought 
decorum  permitted,  I  rose  to  depart.  He  dismissed  me  very 
complaisantly.  I  re- entered  my  fine  equipage,  and  took  the 
best  of  my  way  home. 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards,  the  Czar  ordered  me  to  be 
invited  to  a  large  dinner  at  Apraxin's,  I  went  there,  and  soon 
found  myself  in  conversation  with  a  droll  little  man,  a  Dutch 
minister,  and  a  great  favorite  with  the  Czar.  The  Admiral 
and  his  wife,  before  we  sat  down  to  eat,  handed  round  to  each 
of  their  company  a  glass  of  brandy  on  a  plate. 

"What  an  odious  custom  !  "  whispered  the  little  Dutch  min- 
ister, smacking  his  lips,  however,  with  an  air  of  tolerable  con- 
tent. 

"  Why,  said  I  prudently,  "  all  countries  have  their  customs. 
Some  centuries  ago,  a  French  traveller  thought  it  horrible  in 
us  Englishmen  to  eat  raw  oysters.  But  the  English  were  in 
the  right  to  eat  oysters  ;  and  perhaps,  by  and  by,  so  much  does 
civilization  increase,  we  shall  think  the  Russians  in  the  right  to 
drink  brandy.  But  really  (we  had  now  sat  down  to  the  enter- 
tainment), I  am  agreeably  surprised  here.  All  the  guests  are 
dressed  like  my  own  countrymen  ;  a  great  decorum  reigns 
around.  If  it  were  a  little  less  cold,  I  might  fancy  myself  in 
London  or  in  Paris." 

"  Wait,"  quoth  the  little  Dutchman,  with  his  mouth  full  of 
jelly  broth — "  wait  till  you  hear  them  talk.  What  think  you, 
now,  that  lady  next  to  me  is  saying  ? " 

"  I  cannot  guess — but  she  has  the  prettiest  smile  in  the 
world  ;  and  there  is  something  at  once  so  kind  and  so  respect- 
ful in  her  manner  that  I  should  say  she  was  either  asking  some 
great  favor,  or  returning  thanks  for  one." 

"  Right,"  cried  the  little  minister.  "  I  will  interpret  for  yon. 
She  is  saying  to  that  old  gentleman — '  Sir,  I  am  extremely 
grateful — (and  may  St.  Nicholas  bless  you  for  it) — for  your 
very   great   kindness   in    having,    the    day   before   yesterday, 


292  DEVEREUX. 

at  your  sumptuous  entertainment,  made  me  so  deliciously — 
drunk  ! '  " 

"  You  are  witty,  monsieur,"  said  I,  smiling.  "  Se  non  e  vera 
i  ben  trovato." 

"  By  my  soul,  it  is  true,"  cried  the  Dutchman ;  **  but, 
hush  ! — see,  they  are  going  to  cut  up  that  great  pie." 

I  turned  my  eyes  to  the  center  of  the  table,  which  was  orna- 
mented with  a  huge  pasty.  Presently  it  was  cut  open,  and 
out — walked  a  hideous  little  dwarf. 

*'  Are  they  going  to  eat  him  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Ha — ha  !  "  laughed  the  Dutchman.  "  No  !  this  is  a  fashion 
of  the  Czar's,  which  the  Admiral  thinks  it  good  policy  to  fol- 
low. See,  it  tickles  the  hebete  Russians.  They  are  quite 
merry  on  it." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  I  ;  "  practical  jokes  are  the  only  witti- 
cisms savages  understand." 

"Ay,  and  if  it  were  not  for  such  jokes  now  and  then,  the 
Czar  would  be  odious  beyond  measure  ;  but  dwarf  pies  and 
mock  processions  make  his  subjects  almost  forgive  him  for 
having  shortened  their  clothes  and  clipped  their  beards." 

"The  Czar  is  very  fond  of  those  mock  processions?  " 

"  Fond  !  "  and  the  little  man  sunk  his  voice  into  a  whisper  ; 
"  he  is  the  sublimest  buffoon  that  ever  existed.  I  will  tell  you 
an  instance  (do  you  like  these  Hungary  wines,  by  the  by  ?) : 
On  the  9th  of  last  June,  the  Czar  carried  me,  and  half-a-dozen 
more  of  his  foreign  ministers  to  his  pleasure-house  (Peterhoff). 
Dinner,  as  usual,  all  drunk  with  tokay,  and  finished  by  a  quart 
of  brandy  each,  from  her  Majesty's  own  hand.  Carried  off  to 
sleep, — some  in  the  garden, — some  in  the  wood. — Woke  at  four, 
still  in  the  clouds.  Carried  back  to  the  pleasure-house,  found 
the  Czar  there,  made  us  a  low  bow,  and  gave  us  a  hatchet 
apiece,  with  orders  to  follow  him.  Off  we  trudged,  rolling  about 
like  ships  in  the  Zuyder  Zee,  entered  a  wood,  and  were  immedi- 
ately set  to  work  at  cutting  a  road  through  it.  Nice  work  for 
us  of  the  corps  diplomatique !  And,  by  my  soul,  sir,  you  see 
that  I  am  by  no  means  a  thin  man  !  We  had  three  hours  of 
it — were  carried  back — made  drunk  again — sent  to  bed — roused 
again  in  an  hour — made  drunk  a  third  time  ;  and,  because  we 
could  not  be  waked  again,  left  in  peace  till  eight  the  next 
morning.  Invited  to  court  to  breakfast — such  headaches 
we  had^longed  for  coffee — found  nothing  but  brandy — forced 
to  drink — sick  as  dogs — sent  to  take  an  airing  upon  the  most 
damnable  little  horses — not  worth  a  guilder — no  bridles  noi 
(saddles — bump — bump — bump  we  go — up  and  down  before  th^ 


DEVEREUX.  293 

Czar's  window — he  and  the  Czarina  looking  at  us.  I  do  assure 
you  I  lost  two  stone  by  that  ride — two  stone,  sir  ! — taken  to 
dinner — drunk  again,  by  the  Lord — all  bundled  on  board  a 
iorrenschute — devil  of  a  storm  came  on — Czar  took  the  rud- 
der— Czarina  on  high  benches  in  the  cabin,  which  was  full  of 
water — waves  beating — winds  blowing — certain  of  being 
drowned — charming  prospect ! — tossed  about  for  seven  hours — 
driven  into  the  Port  of  Cronsflot.  Czar  leaves  us,  saying, 
'  Too  much  of  a  jest,  eh,  gentlemen  ! '  All  got  ashore  wet  as 
dog-fishes,  made  a  fire,  stripped  stark  naked  (a  Dutch  ambas- 
sador stark  naked — think  of  it,  sir !),  crept  into  some  covers 
of  sledges,  and  rose  next  morning  with  the  ague — positive  fact, 
sir.  Had  the  ague  for  two  months.  Saw  the  Czar  in  August — 
*  A  charming  excursion  to  my  pleasure-house,'  said  his 
majesty — 'we  must  make  another  party  there  soon.'" 

As  the  Dutchman  delivered  himself  of  this  little  history  he 
was  by  no  means  forgetful  of  the  Hungary  wines  ;  and  as  Bac- 
chus and  Venus  have  old  affinity,  he  now  began  to  grow  elo- 
quent on  the  women. 

"What  think  you  of  them  yourself?"  said  he,  "  they  have  a 
rolling  look,  eh  ! " 

"  They  have  so,"  I  answered,  "  but  they  all  have  black 
teeth — what's  the  reason  ? " 

"  They  think  it  a  beauty,  and  say  white  teeth  are  the  sign  of 
a  blackamoor." 

Here  the  Dutchman  was  accosted  by  some  one  else,  and 
there  was  a  pause.  Dinner  at  last  ceased  ;  the  guests  did  not 
sit  long  after  dinner,  and  for  a  very  good  reason  :  the  brandy 
bowl  is  a  great  enforcer  of  a  prostrate  position  !  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  the  company  safely  under  the  table.  The 
Dutchman  went  first,  and,  having  dexterously  manoeuvred  an 
escape  from  utter  oblivion  for  myself,  I  managed  to  find  my 
way  home,  more  edified  than  delighted  by  the  character  of  a 
Russian  entertainment. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Conversations  with  the  Czar — if  Cromwell  was  the  greatest  man  (Csesar 
excepted)  who  ever  rose  to  the  Supreme  Power,  Peter  was  the  greatest 
man  ever  bom  to  it. 

It  was  singular  enough  that  my  introduction  to  the  notice 
of  Peter  the  Great,  and  Philip  the  Debonnair,  should  have 
taken  place  under  circumstances  so  far  similar  that  both  those 


294  DEVEREUX. 

illustrious  personages  were  playing  the  part  rather  of  subjects 
than  of  princes.  I  cannot,  however,  conceive  a  greater  mark 
of  the  contrast  between  their  characters  than  the  different 
motives  and  manners  of  the  incognitos  severally  assumed. 

Philip,  in  a  scene  of  low  riot  and  debauch,  hiding  the  Jupiter 
under  the  Silenus — wearing  the  mask  only  for  the  licentiousness 
it  veiled,  and  foregoing  the  prerogative  of  power,  solely  for 
indulgence  in  the  grossest  immunities  of  vice. 

Peter,  on  the  contrary,  parting  with  the  selfishness  of  state, 
in  order  to  watch  the  more  keenly  over  the  interests  of  his 
people — only  omitting  to  preside  in  order  to  examine — and 
affecting  the  subject  only  to  learn  the  better  the  duties  of  the 
prince.  Had  I  leisure,  I  might  here  pause  to  point  out  a  nota- 
ble contrast,  not  between  the  Czar  and  the  Regent,  but  between 
Peter  the  Great  and  Louis  le  Grand  ;  both  creators  of  a  new 
era, — both  associated  with  a  vast  change  in  the  condition  of 
two  mighty  empires.  There  ceases  the  likeness,  and  begins 
the  contrast ;  the  blunt  simplicity  of  Peter,  the  gorgeous  magni- 
ficence of  Louis  ;  the  sternness  of  a  legislator  for  barbarians, 
the  clemency  of  an  idol  of  courtiers.  One  the  victorious 
defender  of  his  countr);- — a  victory  solid,  durable,  and  just ; 
the  other  the  conquering  devastator  of  a  neighboring  people — 
a  victory  glittering,  evanescent,  and  dishonorable.  The  one, 
in  peace,  rejecting  parade,  pomp,  individual  honors,  and  trans- 
forming a  wilderness  into  an  empire  :  the  other  involved  in 
ceremony,  and  throned  on  pomp  :  and  exhausting  the  produce 
of  millions  to  pamper  the  bloated  vanity  of  an  individual. 
The  one  a  fire  that  burns  without  enlightening  beyond  a  most 
narrow  circle,  and  whose  lustre  is  tracked  by  what  it  ruins, 
and  fed  by  what  it  consumes  :  the  other  a  luminary,  whose 
light,  not  so  dazzling  in  its  rays,  spreads  over  a  world,  and  is 
noted,  not  for  what  it  destroys,  but  for  what  it  vivifies  and 
creates. 

I  cannot  say  that  it  was  much  to  my  credit  that,  while  I 
thought  the  Regent's  condescension  towards  me  natural  enough, 
I  was  a  little  surprised  by  the  favor  shown  me  by  the  Czar. 
At  Paris,  I  had  seemed  to  be  the  man  of  pleasure  ;  that  alone 
was  enough  to  charm  Philip  of  Orleans.  But  in  Russia,  what 
could  I  seem  in  any  way  calculated  to  charm  the  Czar?  I 
could  neither  make  ships,  nor  could  sail  them  when  they  were 
made  ;  I  neither  knew,  nor,  what  was  worse,  cared  to  know, 
the  stern  from  the  rudder.  Mechanics  were  a  mystery  to  me  ; 
road-making  was  an  incomprehensible  science.  Brandy  I  could 
not  endure— a  blunt  bearing,  and  familiar  n\anner,  I  could  not 


DEViiREtrx.  295 

assume.  What  was  it  then  that  made  the  Czar  call  upon  me 
at  least  twice  a  week  in  private,  shut  himself  up  with  me  by 
the  hour  together,  and  endeavor  to  make  me  drunk  with  tokay, 
in  order  (as  he  very  incautiously  let  out  one  night),  "to  learn 
the  secrets  of  my  heart"?  I  thought,  at  first,  that  the  nature 
of  my  mission  was  enough  to  solve  the  riddle  :  but  we  talked 
so  little  about  it  that,  with  all  my  diplomatic  vanities  fresh 
about  me,  I  could  not  help  feeling  I  owed  the  honor  I  received 
less  to  my  qualities  as  a  minister,  than  to  those  as  an  indi- 
vidual. 

At  last,  however,  I  found  that  the  secret  attraction  was  what 
the  Czar  termed  the  philosophical  channel  into  which  our  con- 
ferences flowed.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  partial  to  moral  pro- 
blems and  metaphysical  inquiries,  especially  to  those  connected 
with  what  ought  to  be  the  beginning  or  the  end  of  all  moral 
sciences — politics.  Sometimes  we  would  wander  out  in  disguise, 
and  select  some  object  from  the  customs,  or  things  around  us. 
as  the  theme  of  reflection  and  discussion  ;  nor  in  these  moments 
would  the  Czar  ever  allow  me  to  yield  to  his  rank  what  I  might 
not  feel  disposed  to  concede  to  his  arguments.  One  day,  I 
remember  that  he  arrested  me  in  the  streets,  and  made  me 
accompany  him  to  look  upon  two  men  undergoing  the  fearful 
punishment  of  the  battaog  ;  *  one  was  a  German,  the  other  a 
Russian;  the  former  shrieked  violently — struggled  in  the  hands 
of  his  punishers — and,  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  was  subjected 
to  his  penalty  ;  the  latter  bore  it  patiently,  and  in  silence ;  he 
only  spoke  once,  and  it  was  to  say,  "  God  bless  the  Czar  !  " 

"  Can  your  Majesty  hear  the  man,"  said  I  warmly,  when  the 
Czar  interpreted  these  words  to  me,  "  and  not  pardon  him  ?" 

Peter  frowned,  but  I  was  not  silenced.  "  You  don't  know 
the  Russians  ! "  said  he  sharply,  and  turned  aside.  The 
punishment  was  now  over.  "Ask  the  German,"  said  the.  Czar 
to  an  officer,  "  what  was  his  offence  ?  "  The  German,  who  was 
writhing  and  howling  horribly,  uttered  some  violent  words 
against  the  disgrace  of  the  punishment,  and  the  pettiness  of  his 
fault ;  what  the  fault  was  1  forget. 

"  Now  ask  the  Russian,"  said  Peter.  "  My  punishment  was 
just!"  said  the  Russian,  coolly,  putting  on  his  clothes  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  ;  "  God  and  the  Czar  were  angry  with 
me  !  " 

"  Come  away,  Count,"  said  the  Czar ;  "  and  now  solve  me  a 
problem.  I  know  both  those  men  ;  and  the  German,  in  a 
battle,  would  be  the  braver  of  the  two.     How  comes  it  that  he 

♦  A  terrible  Usid  of  flogging,  but  less  severe  than  the  knout. 


296  DEVERfeUX. 

weeps  and  writhes  like  a  girl,  while  the  Russian  bears  the  same 
pain  without  a  murmur?" 

"Will  your  Majesty  forgive  me,"  said  I,  "but  I  cannot  help 
wishing  that  the  Russian  had  complained  more  bitterly  ;  insensi- 
bility to  punishment  is  the  sign  of  a  brute,  not  a  hero.  Do  you 
not  see  that  the  German  felt  the  indignity,  the  Russian  did  not; 
and  do  you  not  see  that  that  very  pride,  which  betrays  agony 
under  the  disgrace  of  the  battaog,  is  exactly  the  very  feeling 
that  would  have  produced  courage  in  the  glory  of  the  battle. 
A  sense  of  honor  makes  better  soldiers  and  better  men  than 
indifference  to  pain." 

"  But  had  I  ordered  the  Russian  to  death,  he  would  have 
gone  with  the  same  apathy,  and  the  same  speech,  *  It  is  just ! 
I  have  offended  God  and  the  Czar  ! '  " 

"Dare  I  observe.  Sire,  that  that  fact  would  be  a  strong  proof 
of  the  dangerous  falsity  of  the  old  maxims  which  extol  indiffer- 
ence to  death  as  a  virtue.  In  some  individuals  it  may  be  a 
sign  of  virtue,  I  allow;  but,  as  a  national  trait,  it  is  the 
strongest  sign  of  national  misery.  Look  round  the  great  globe. 
What  countries  are  those  where  the  inhabitants  bear  death  with 
cheerfulness,  or,  at  least,  with  apathy  ?  Are  they  the  most  civil- 
ized— the  most  free — the  most  prosperous  ?  Pardon  me — no  ! 
They  are  the  half-starved,  half  clothed,  half-human,  sons  of  the 
forest  and  the  waste;  or,  when  gathered  in  states,  they  are  slaves 
without  enjoyment  or  sense  beyond  the  hour :  and  the  reason 
that  they  do  not  recoil  from  the  pangs  of  death  is  because  they 
have  never  known  the  real  pleasures  or  the  true  objects  of  life."' 

"  Yet,"  said  the  Czar  musingly,  "the  contempt  of  death  was 
the  great  characteristic  of  the  Spartans." 

"  And,  therefore,"  said  I,  "  the  great  token  that  the  Spar- 
tans were  a  miserable  horde.  Your  majesty  admires  England 
and  the  English  ;  you  have,  beyond  doubt,  witnessed  an  execu- 
tion in  that  country;  you  have  noted,  even  where  the  criminal 
is  consoled  by  religion,  how  he  trembles  and  shrinks — how  de- 
jected— how  prostrate  of  heart  he  is  before  the  doom  is  com- 
pleted. Take  now  the  vilest  slave,  either  of  the  Emperor  of 
Morocco,  or  the  great  Czar  of  Russia.  He  changes  neither 
tint  nor  muscle  :  he  requires  no  consolation  :  he  shrinks  from 
no  torture.  What  is  the  inference  ?  That  slaves  dread  death  less 
than  the  free.  And  it  should  be  so.  The  end  of  legislation 
is  not  to  make  death,  but  life,  a  blessing." 

"  You  have  put  the  matter  in  a  new  light,"  said  the  Czar  ; 
"  but  you  allow  that,  in  individuals,  contempt  of  death  is  some- 
times a  virtue." 


BEVEREtJ5t.  297 

"  Yes,  when  It  springs  from  mental  reasonings,  not  physical 
indifference.  But  your  Majesty  has  already  put  in  action  one 
vast  spring  of  a  system,  which  will  ultimately  open  to  your  sub- 
jects so  many  paths  of  existence  that  they  will  preserve  con- 
tempt for  its  proper  objects,  and  not  lavish  it  solely  as  they  do 
now,  on  the  degradation  which  sullies  life,  and  the  axe  that 
ends  it.  You  have  already  begun  the  conquest  of  another 
and  a  most  vital  error  in  the  philosophy  of  the  ancients; 
that  philosophy  taught  that  man  should  have  few  wants, 
and  made  it  a  crime  to  increase,  and  a  virtue  to  reduce, 
them.  A  legislator  should  teach,  on  the  contrary,  that  man 
should  have  many  wants  :  for  wants  are  not  only  the 
sources  of  enjoyment — they  are  the  sources  of  improvement  ; 
and  that  nation  will  be  the  most  enlightened  among  whose 
populace  they  are  found  the  most  numerous.  You,  Sire,  by 
circulating  the  arts,  the  graces,  create  a  vast  herd  of  moral 
wants  hitherto  unknown,  and  in  those  wants  will  hereafter  be 
found  the  prosperity  of  your  people,  the  fountain  of  your  re- 
sources, and  the  strength  of  your  empire." 

In  conversation  on  these  topics  we  often  passed  hours  to- 
gether, and  from  such  conferences  the  Czar  passed  only  to  those 
on  other  topics  more  immediately  useful  to  him.  No  man,  per- 
haps, had  a  larger  share  of  the  mere  human  frailties  than  Peter  the 
Great  ;  yet  I  do  confess  that  when  I  saw  the  nobleness  of  mind 
with  which  he  flung  aside  his  rank  as  a  robe,  and  repaired  from 
man  to  man,  the  humblest  or  the  highest,  the  artisan  or  the  prince, 
the  prosperity  of  his  subjects  his  only  object,  and  the  acquisi- 
tion of  knowledge  his  only  means  to  obtain  it, — I  do  confess 
that  my  mental  sight  refused  even  to  perceive  his  frailties,  and 
that  I  could  almost  have  bent  the  knee  in  worship  to  a  being 
whose  benevolence  was  so  pervading  a  spirit,  and  whose  power 
was  so  glorious  a  minister  to  utility. 

Towards  the  end  of  January,  I  completed  my  mission,  and 
took  my  leave  of  the  court  of  Russia. 

"  Tell  the  Regent,"  said  Peter,  "  that  I  shall  visit  him  in 
France  soon,  and  shall  expect  to  see  his  drawings,  if  I  show 
him  my  models." 

In  effect,  the  next  month  (February  16),  the  Czar  com- 
menced his  second  course  of  travels.  He  was  pleased  to  tes- 
tify some  regard  for  me  on  my  departure.  "  If  ever  you  quit 
the  service  of  the  French  court,  and  your  own  does  not  require 
you,  I  implore  you  to  come  to  me  ;  1  will  give  you  carte  blanche 
as  to  the  nature  and  appointments  of  your  office." 

I  need  not  say  that  1  expressed  my  gratitude  for  the  royal  con- 


298  devereux. 

descension  ;  nor  that,  in  leaving  Russia,  I  brought,  from  the  ex- 
ample of  its  sovereign,  a  greater  desire  to  be  useful  to  mankind 
than  I  had  known  before.  Pattern  and  Teacher  of  kings,  if  each 
country,  in  each  century,  had  produced  one  such  ruler  as  you, 
either  all  mankind  would  noiv  be  contented  with  despotism,  or 
all  mankind  would  be  free!  Oh  !  when  kings  have  only  lo  be 
good,  to  be  kept  forever  in  our  hearts  and  souls  as  tlie  gods 
and  benefactors  of  the  earth,  by  what  monstrous  fatality  have 
they  been  so  blind  to  their  fame?  When  we  remember  the 
millions,  the  generations,  they  can  degrade,  destroy,  elevate  or 
save,  we  might  almost  think  (even  if  the  other  riddles  of 
the  present  existence  did  not  require  a  future  existence  to 
solve  them),  we  might  almost  think  a  hereafter  necessary,  were 
it  but  for  the  sole  purpose  of  requiting  the  virtues  of  princes, — 
or  their  sins.* 


CHAPTER  V. 

Return  to  Paris. — Interview  with  Bolingbroke. — A  gallant  Adventure. — Affair 
with  Dubois. — Public  Life  is  a  Drama,  in  which  private  Vices  generally 
play  the  part  of  the  Scene-shifters. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  we  experience  on  entering  a  great  city 
by  night — a  strange  mixture  of  social  and  solitary  impressions. 
I  say  by  night,  because  at  that  time  we  are  most  inclined  to  feel ; 
and  the  mind,  less  distracted  than  in  the  day  by  external 
objects,  dwells  the  more  intensely  upon  its  own  hopes  and 
thoughts,  remembrances  and  associations — and  sheds  over  them 
from  that  one  feeling  which  it  cherishes  the  most,  a  blending 
and  a  mellowing  hue. 

It  was  at  night  that  I  re-entered  Paris,  I  did  not  tarry  long 
at  my  hotel,  before  (though  it  was  near  upon  midnight)  I  con- 
veyed myself  to  Lord  Bolingbroke's  lodgings.  Knowing  his 
engagements  at  St.  Germains,  where  the  Chevalier  (who  had  but 
a  very  few  weeks  before  returned  to  France,  after  the  crude  and 
unfortunate  affair  of  17 15)  chiefly  resided,  I  was  not  very  san- 
guine in  my  hopes  of  finding  him  at  Paris.  I  was,  however, 
agreeably  surprised.  His  servant  would  have  ushered  me  into 
his  study,  but  I  was  willing  to  introduce  myself.  I  withheld 
the  servant,  and  entered  the  room  alone. 

The  door  was  ajar,  and  Bolingbroke  neither  heard  nor  saw 

_  *  Upon  his  death-bed  Peter  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  God,  I  dare  trust,  will  look  mer- 
cifully upon  my  faults  in  consideration  of  the  good  I  have  done  my  country."  These 
are  worthy  to  be  the  last  words  of  a  king  !  Rarely  has  there  been  a  monarch  who  more 
required  the  forgiveness  of  the  Creator ;  yet  seldom  perhaps  has  there  been  a  human 
bei.ig  who  more  deserved  it. — Eu. 


DEVEREUX,  299 

me.  There  was  something  in  his  attitude  and  aspect  whidi 
made  me  pause  to  survey  him,  before  I  made  myself  known. 
He  was  sitting  by  a  table  covered  Avith  books.  A  large  folio 
(it  was  the  Cas.iubon  edition  of  Polybius)  was  lying  open  before 
him.  I  recognized  the  work  at  once — it  was  a  favorite  book 
with  Bolingbioke,  and  we  had  often  discussed  the  merits  of  its 
author.  I  smiled  as  I  saw  that  that  book,  which  has  to  states- 
men so  peculiar  an  attraction,  made  still  the  study  from  which 
the  busy,  restless,  ardent,  and  exalted  spirit  of  the  statesman 
before  me  drew  its  intellectual  food.  But  at  the  moment  in 
which  I  entered,  his  eye  was  absent  from  the  page,  and  turned 
abstractedly  in  an  opposite,  though  still  downcast,  direction. 
His  countenance  was  extremely  pale — his  lips  were  tightly 
compressed,  and  an  air  of  deep  thought,  mingled,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  with  sadness — made  the  ruling  expression  of  his  lordly 
and  noble  features.  "It  is  the  torpor  of  ambition  after  one  of 
its  storms,"  said  I,  inly — and  I  approached,  and  laid  my  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

After  our  mutual  greetings,  I  said  :  "  Have  the  dead  so  strong 
an  attraction  that  at  this  hour  they  detain  the  courted  and 
courtly  Bolingbroke  from  the  admiration  and  converse  of  the 
living  ? " 

The  statesman  looked  at  me  earnestly.  "  Have  you  heard 
the  news  of  the  day?  "  said  he. 

"  How  is  it  possible?     I  have  but  just  arrived  at  Paris." 

"  You  do  not  know,  then,  that  I  have  resigned  my  office  under 
the  Chevalier ! " 

"  Resigned  your  office  !  " 

"Resigned  is  a  wrong  word — I  received  a  dismissal.  Imme- 
diately on  his  return  the  Chevalier  sent  for  me — embraced  me — 
desired  me  to  prepare  to  follow  him  to  Lorraine ;  and  three 
days  afterwards  came  the  Duke  of  Ormond  to  me,  to  ask  me  to 
deliver  up  the  seals  and  papers.  I  put  the  latter  very  carefully 
in  a  little  letter-case,  and  behold  an  end  to  the  administration 
of  Lord  Bolingbroke  !  The  Jacobites  abuse  me  terribly — their 
king  accuses  me  of  neglect,  incapacity,  and  treachery — and 
Fortune  pulls  down  the  fabric  she  had  built  for  me,  in  order  to 
pelt  me  with  the  stones  !  "  * 

"  My  dear,  dear  friend,  I  am  indeed  grieved  for  you  ;  but  I 
am  more  incensed  at  the  infatuation  of  the  Chevalier.  Surely, 
surely  he  must  already  have  seen  his  error,  and  solicited  your 
return." 

"  Return  !  "  cried  Bolingbroke,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fire— ■ 

♦  l<?tter  fo  Sir  W,  Windham,— Ep, 


300  DEVEREUX. 

"  return  ! — Hear  what  I  said  to  the  queen  mother  who  came  to 
me  to  attempt  a  reconciliation  :  '  Madam,'  said  I,  in  a  tone  as 
calm  as  I  could  command,  'if  ever  this  hand  draws  the  sword, 
or  employs  the  pen,  in  behalf  of  that  prince,  may  it  rot  !  ' 
Return  !  not  if  my  head  were  the  price  of  refusal  !  Yet,  Dev- 
ereux," — and  here  Bolingbroke's  voice  and  manner  changed — 
"yet  it  is  not  at  these  tricks  of  fate  that  a  wise  man  will  repine. 
We  do  right  to  cultivate  honors  ;  they  are  sources  of  gratifica- 
tion to  ourselves  ;  they  are  more — they  are  incentives  to  the 
conduct  which  works  benefit  to  others  ;  but  we  do  wrong  to 
afflict  ourselves  at  their  loss.  Nee  querere  nee  spernere  Jwnores 
oportct*  It  is  good  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  fortune  ;  it  is 
better  to  submit  without  a  pang  to  their  loss.  You  remember, 
when  you  left  me,  I  was  preparing  myself  for  this  stroke — 
believe  me,  I  am  now  prepared." 

And  in  truth  Bolingbroke  bore  the  ingratitude  of  the  Cheva- 
lier well.  Soon  afterwards  he  carried  his  long  cherished  wishes 
for  retirement  into  effect ;  and  Fate,  who  delights  in  reversing 
her  disk,  leaving  in  darkness  what  she  had  just  illumined,  and 
illumining  what  she  had  hitherto  left  in  obscurity  and  gloom, 
for  a  long  interval  separated  us  from  each  other,  no  less  by  his 
seclusion  than  by  the  publicity  to  which  she  condemned  myself. 

Lord  Bolingbroke's  dismissal  was  not  the  only  event  affect- 
ing me  that  had  occurred  during  my  absence  from  France. 
Among  the  most  active  partisans  of  the  Chevalier,  in  the  expe- 
dition of  Lord  Mar,  had  been  Montreuil.  So  great,  indeed, 
had  been  either  his  services,  or  the  idea  entertained  of  their 
value,  that  a  reward  of  extraordinary  amount  was  offered  for 
his  head.  Hitherto  he  had  escaped,  and  was  supposed  to  be 
still  in  Scotland. 

But  what  affected  me  more  nearly  was  the  condition  of 
Gerald's  circumstances.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion, 
he  had  been  suddenly  seized,  and  detained  in  prison  ;  and  it 
was  only  upon  the  escape  of  the  Chevalier  that  he  was  released  ; 
apparently,  however,  nothing  had  been  proved  against  him  ; 
and  my  absence  from  the  headquarters  of  intelligence  left  me 
in  ignorance  both  of  the  grounds  of  his  imprisonment,  and  the 
circumstances  of  his  release. 

I  heard,  however,  from  Bolingbroke,  who  seemed  to  possess 
some  of  that  information  which  the  ecclesiastical  intriguants 
of  the  day  so  curiously  transmitted  from  court  to  court,  and 
corner  to  corner,  that  Gerald  had  retired  to  Devereux  Court  in 
great  disgust  at  his  confinement.     However,  when  I  considered 

*  It  becomes  hs  neither  to  court,  nor  to  despise  honors. 


DEVEREUX.  301 

his  bold  character,  his  close  intimacy  with  Montreuil,  and  the 
genius  for  intrigue  which  that  priest  so  eminently  possessed,  I 
was  not  much  inclined  to  censure  the  government  for  unneces- 
sary precaution  in  his  imprisonment. 

There  was  another  circumstance  connected  with  the  rebellion 
which  possessed  for  me  an  individual  and  deep  interest.  A 
man  of  the  name  of  Barnard  had  been  executed  in  England  for 
seditious  and  treasonable  practices.  I  took  especial  pains  to 
ascertain  every  particular  respecting  him.  I  learned  that  he  was 
young,  of  inconsiderable  note,  but  esteemed  clever ;  and  had, 
long  previously  to  the  death  of  the  queen,  been  secretly  employed 
by  the  friends  of  the  Chevalier.  This  circumstance  occasioned 
me  much  internal  emotion,  though  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
the  Barnard  whom  I  had  such  cause  to  execrate,  had  only 
borrowed  from  this  minion  the  disguise  of  his  name. 

The  Regent  received  me  with  all  the  graciousness  and  com- 
■  plaisance  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable.  To  say  the  truth 
my  mission  had  been  extremely  fortunate  in  its  results  ;  the  only 
cause  in  which  the  Regent  was  concerned,  the  interests  of  which 
Peter  the  Great  appeared  to  disregard,  was  that  of  the  Chevalier  ; 
but  I  had  been  fully  instructed  on  that  head  anterior  to  my 
legation. 

There  appears  very  often  to  be  a  sort  of  moral  fitness  between 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  certain  alliances  or  acquaintances. 
This  sentiment  is  not  very  clearly  expressed.  I  am  about  to 
illustrate  it  by  an  important  event  in  my  political  life.  During 
my  absence  Dubois  had  made  rapid  steps  towards  being  a  great 
man.  He  was  daily  growing  into  power,  and  those  courtiers 
who  were  neither  too  haughty  nor  too  honest  to  bend  the  knee 
to  so  vicious,  yet  able  a  minion,  had  already  singled  him  out  as 
a  fit  person  to  flatter  and  to  rise  by.  For  me,  I  neither  sought 
nor  avoided  him  ;  but  he  was  as  civil  towards  me  as  \\\s  brusque 
temper  permitted  him  to  be  towards  most  persons;  and  as  our 
careers  were  not  likely  to  cross  one  another,  I  thought  I  might 
reckon  on  his  neutrality,  if  not  on  his  friendship.  Chance  turned 
the  scale  against  me. 

One  day  I  received  an  anonymous  letter,  requesting  me  to  be, 

at  such  an  hour,  at  a  certain  house  in  the  Rue .     It  occurred 

tome  as  no  improbable  supposition,  that  the  appointment  might 
relate  to  my  individual  circumstances,  whether  domestic  or 
political,  and  I  certainly  had  not  at  the  moment  any  ideas  of 
gallantry  in  my  brain.  At  the  hour  prescribed  I  appeared  at 
the  place  of  assignation.  My  mind  misgave  me  when  I  saw  a 
female  conduct  me  into  a  little  chamber  hung  with   tapestry 


30a.  DEVEREUX. 

descriptive  of  the  loves  of  Mars  and  Venus.  After  I  had  cooled 
my  heels  in  this  apartment  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  in  saile(? 
a  tall  woman,  of  a  complexion  almost  Moorish.  I  bowed — th^ 
lady  sighed.  An  ^claircissement  ensued — and  I  found  that  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  the  object  of  z.  caprice,  in  the  favorite  mis- 
tress of  the  Abbe  Dubois.  Nothing  was  farther  from  my  wishes  ! 
What  a  pity  it  is  that  one  cannot  always  tell  a  woman  one's 
mind  ! 

I  attempted  a  flourish  about  friendship,  honor,  and  the  respect 
due  to  the  amante  of  the  most  intimate  ami  I  had  in  the  world. 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  the  tawny  Calypso,  a  little  pettishly — "  pooh  ! 
one  does  not  talk  of  those  things  here," 

*'  Madame,"  said  I,  very  energetically,  "  I  implore  you  to 
refrain.  Do  not  excite  too  severe  a  contest  between  passion 
and  duty  !  I  feel  that  I  must  fly  you — you  are  already  too 
bewitching." 

Just  as  I  rose  to  depart,  in  rushes  i\\Q  femme  de  chambre,  and 
announces,  not  Monsieur,  the  Abbe,  but  Monseigneur,the  Regent. 
Of  course  (the  old  resort  in  such  cases)  I  was  thrust  into  a  closet; 
in  marches  his  royal  highness,  and  is  received  very  cavalierly. 
It  is  quite  astonishing  to  me  what  airs  those  women  give  them- 
selves when  they  have  princes  to  manage  !  However,  my  con- 
finement was  notlong — the  closet  had  another  door — \.\\Q/emtne 
de  chambre  slips  round,  opens  it,  and  I  congratulate  myself  on 
my  escape. 

When  a  Frenchwoman  is  piqued,  she  passes  all  understand- 
ing. The  next  day  I  am  very  quietly  employed  at  breakfast, 
when  my  valet  ushers  in  a  masked  personage,  and,  behold  my 
gentlewoman  again  !  Human  endurance  will  not  go  too  far,  and 
this  was  a  case  which  required  one  to  be  in  a  passion  one  way 
or  the  other;  so  I  feigned  anger,  and  talked  with  exceeding 
dignity  about  the  predicament  I  had  been  placed  in  the  day 
before. 

"  Such  must  always  be  the  case,"  said  I,  "  when  one  is  weak 
enough  to  form  an  attachment  to  a  lady  who  encourages  so 
many  others  !" 

"  For  your  sake,"  said  the  tender  dame,  "  for  your  sake,  then, 
I  will  discard  them  all !  " 

There  was  sometliing  grand  in  this  :  it  might  have  elicited  a 
few  strokes  of  pathos,  when — never  was  there  anything  so  strange- 
ly provoking — the  Abbe  Dubois  himself  was  heard  in  my  anti- 
room.  I  thought  this  chance,  but  it  was  more  ;  the  good  Abb^, 
I  afterwards  found,  had  traced  cause  for  suspicion,  and  had  come 
."o  pay  me  a  visit  of  amatory  police.     I   opened  my   dressin/*' 


DEVEREUJf.  303 

foom  door,  and  thrust  in  the  lady.  "  There,"  said  I,  "  are  the 
back-stairs,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  back-stairs  is  a  door." 

Would  not  any  one  have  thought  this  hint  enough  ?  By  no 
means  ;  this  very  tall  lady  stooped  to  the  littleness  of  listening, 
and,  instead  of  departing,  stationed  herself  by  rhe  keyhole. 

I  never  exactly  learned  whether  Dubois  suspected  the  visit 
his  mistress  had  paid  me,  or  whether  he  merely  surmised,  from 
his  spies  or  her  escritoire,  that  she  harbored  an  inclination  to- 
wards me  ;  in  either  case  his  policy  was  natural,  and  like  himself. 

He  sat  himself  down — talked  of  the  Regent,  of  pleasure,  of 
women,  and,  at  last  of  his  very  tall  lady  in  question. 

**  Le pauvre  diabiesse,"  said  he  contemptuously,  "  I  had  once 
compassion  on  her ;  I  have  repented  it  ever  since.  You  have 
no  idea  what  a  terrible  creature  she  is — has  such  a  wen  in  her 
neck — quite  a  goitre.  Mortdiable  !  "  (and  the  Abbe  spat  in  his 
handkerchief).  "  I  would  sooner  have  a  liaison  with  the  witch 
of  Endor  ! " 

Not  content  with  this  he  went  on  in  his  usual  gross  and  dis- 
pleasing manner  to  enumerate  or  to  forge  those  various  par- 
ticulars of  her  personal  charms,  which  he  thoughtmost  likely  to 
steel  me  against  her  attractions.  "Thank  Heaven,  at  least," 
thought  I  '■  that  she  has  gone  !  " 

Scarcely  had  this  pious  gratulation  flowed  from  my  heart,  be- 
fore the  door  was  burst  open,  and  pale — trembling — eyes  on 
fire — hands  clenched — forth  stalked  the  lady  in  question.  A 
wonderful  proof  how  much  sooner  a  woman  would  lose  her 
character  than  allow  it  to  be  called  not  worth  the  losing.  She 
entered,  and  had  all  the  furies  of  Hades  lent  her  their  tongues  she 
could  not  have  been  more  eloquent.  It  would  have  been  a 
very  pleasant  scene  if  one  had  not  been  a  partner  in  it.  The 
old  Abbe,  with  his  keen,  astute,  marked  face,  struggling  between 
surprise,  fear,  the  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  the  certainty  of 
losing  his  mistress  ;  the  lady,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  shaking 
her  clenched  hand  most  menacingly  at  her  traducer — myself  en- 
deavoring to  pacify,  and  acting,  as  one  does  at  such  moments, 
mechanically — though  one  flatters  one-self  afterwards  that  one 
acted  solely  from  wisdom. 

But  the  Abbe's  mistress  was  by  no  means  content  with  vin- 
dicating herself — she  retaliated — and  gave  so  minute  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  Abba's  own  qualities  and  graces,  coupled  with  so 
many  pleasing  illustrations,  that  in  a  very  little  time  his  coolness 
forsook  him,  and  he  grew  in  as  great  a  rage  as  herself.  At  last 
she  flew  out  of  the  room.  The  Abb^,  trembling  with  passion, 
shook  me  most  cordially  by  the  hand,  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 


304  DEVEREUX. 

said  it  was  a  capital  joke,  wislied  me  good-by,  as  if  he  loved  me 
better  than  his  eyes,  and  left  the  house,  my  most  irreconcilable 
and  bitter  foe  ! 

How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  The  rivalship  the  Abb6  might 
have  forgiven — such  things  happened  every  day  to  him — but  the 
having  been  made  so  egregiously  ridiculous,  the  Abb^  could 
not  forgive  ;  and  the  Abbe's  was  a  critical  age  for  jesting  on 
these  matters,  sixty  or  so.  And  then  sucli  unpalatable  sarcasms 
on  his  appearance!  " 'Tis  all  over  in  that  quarter,"  said  I  to 
myself,  "but  we  may  find  another,"  and  I  drove  out  that  very 
day  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Regent. 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  one's  pride  should  so  often  be  the  bane 
of  one's  wisdom  !  Ah  !  that  one  could  be  as  good  a  man  of 
the  world  in  practice  as  one  is  in  theory  !  my  master-stroke  of 
policy  at  that  moment  would  evidently  have  been  this  :  I  should 
have  gone  to  the  Regent  and  made  out  a  story  a  little  similar 
to  the  real  one,  but  with  this  difference,  all  the  ridicule  of  the 
situation  should  have  fallen  upon  me,  and  the  little  Dubois 
should  have  been  elevated  on  a  pinnacle  of  respectable  appear- 
ances !  This,  as  the  Regent  told  the  Abbe  everything,  would 
have  saved  me.  I  saw  the  plan  ;  but  was  too  proud  to  adopt 
it ;  I  followed  another  course  in  my  game  :  I  threw  away  the 
knave  and  played  with  the  king,  i.  e.,  with  the  Regent.  After  a 
little  preliminary  conversation,  I  turned  the  conversation  on 
the  Abbe. 

"  Ah,  the  scd^rat !  "  said  Philip,  smiling,  "  'tis  a  sad  dog,  but 
very  clever  and  /oves  mej  he  would  be  incomparable,  if  he  were 
but  decently  honest." 

"  At  least,"  said  I,  "  he  is  no  hypocrite,  and  that  is  some 
praise." 

"  Hem  !  "  ejaculated  the  Duke  very  slowly,  and  then,  after 
a  pause,  he  said,  "  Count,  I  have  a  real  kindness  for  you,  and  I 
will  therefore  give  you  a  piece  of  advice :  think  as  well  of 
Dubois  as  you  can,  and  address  him  as  if  he  were  all  you  en- 
deavored to  fancy  him." 

After  this  hint,  which  in  the  mouth  of  any  prince  but  Philip 
of  Orleans  would  have  been  not  a  little  remarkable  for  its  want 
of  dignity,  my  prospects  did  not  seem  much  brighter  :  however, 
I  was  not  discouraged. 

"TheAbb^,"  said  I  respectfully,  "is  a  choleric  man  :  one 
may  displease  him  ;  but  dare  I  hope  that  so  long  as  I  preserve 
inviolate  my  zeal  and  my  attachment  to  the  interests  and  the 
person  of  your  highness,  no — " 

The  Regent  interrupted  me.     "  You  mean  nobody  shall  sue- 


DEVEUEUJi,  J05 

cessfuUy  misrepresent  you  to  me  ?  No,  Count "  (and  here  the 
Regent  spoke  with  the  earnestness  and  dignity  which,  when  he 
did  assume,  few  wore  with  anobler  grace), — "no,  Count,  I  make 
a  distinction  between  those  who  minister  to  the  state,  and  those 
who  minister  to  me.  I  consider  your  services  too  valuable  to 
the  former  to  put  them  at  the  mercy  of  the  latter.  And  now 
that  the  conversation  has  turned  upon  business,  I  wish  to  speak 
to  you  about  this  scheme  of  Gortz.'' 

After  a  prolonged  conference  with  the  Regent  upon  matters 
of  business,  in  which  his  deep  penetration  into  human  nature 
not  a  little  surprised  me,  I  went  away,  thoroughly  satisfied  with 
my  visit.  I  should  not  have  been  so  had  I  added  to  my  other 
accomplishments  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

Above  five  days  after  this  interview,  I  thought  it  would  be  but 
prudent  to  pay  the  Abbe  Dubois  one  of  those  visits  of  homage 
which  it  was  already  become  policy  to  pay  him.  "  If  I  go," 
thought  I,  "it  will  seem  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ;  if  I  stay 
away,  it  will  seem  as  if  I  attached  importance  to  a  scene  I  should 
appear  to  have  forgotten." 

it  so  happened  that  the  Abbe  had  a  very  unusual  visitor  that 
morning,  in  the  person  of  the  austere  but  admirable  Due  de  St. 
Simon.  There  was  a  singular,  and  almost  invariable,  distinc- 
tion in  the  Regent's  mind  between  one  kind  of  regard  and 
another.  His  regard  for  one  order  of  persons  always  arose 
either  out  of  his  vices  or  his  indolence  ;  his  regard  for  another, 
out  of  his  good  qualities  and  his  strong  sense.  The  Due  deSt. 
Simon  held  the  same  place  in  the  latter  species  of  affection  that 
Dubois  did  in  the  former.  The  Due  was  just  coming  out  of 
the  Abbe's  closet  as  I  entered  the  ante-room.  He  paused  to 
speak  to  me,  while  Dubois,  who  had  followed  the  Due  out, 
stopped  for  one  moment,  and  surveyed  me  with  a  look  like  a 
thunder-cloud.     I  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  butSt,  Simon  did, 

"That  look,"  said  he,  as  Dubois,  beckoning  to  a  gentleman 
to  accompany  him  to  his  closet,  once  more  disappeared, 
"  that  look  bodes  you  no  good,  Count." 

Pride  is  an  elevation  which  is  a  spring-board  at  one  time, 
•and  a  stumbling-block  at  another.  It  was  with  me  more  often 
the  stumbling-block  than  the  spring-board.  "  Monseigneur  le 
Due,"  said  I  haughtily  enough,  and  rather  in  too  loud  a  tone 
considering  the  chamber  was  pretty  full,  "  in  no  court  to  which 
Morton  Devereux  proffers  his  services  shall  his  fortune  de- 
pend upon  the  looks  of  a  low-born,  insolent,  or  profligate 
priest." 

St.  Simon  smiled  sardonically.     "Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said 


so6 


DEVEREUX. 


he,  rather  civilly,  "  I  honor  your  sentiments,  and  I  wish  you  suc- 
cess in  the  world — and  a  lower  voice." 

I  was  going  to  say  something  by  way  of  retort,  for  I  was  in 
a  very  bad  humor,  but  I  checked  myself ;  "I  need  not,"  thought 
I,  "  make  two  enemies  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  I  shall  never,"  I  replied  gravely,  "  I  shall  never  despair,  so 
long  as  the  Due  de  St.  Simon  lives,  of  winning  by  the  same  arts 
the  favor  of  princes  and  the  esteem  of  good  men." 

The  Due  was  flattered,  and  replied  suitably,  but  he  very  soon 
afterwards  went  away.  I  was  resolved  that  I  would  not  go  till  I  had 
fairly  seen  what  sort  of  reception  the  Abbe  would  give  me.  I  did 
not  wait  long — he  came  out  of  his  closet,  and  standing  in  his 
usual  rude  manner  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  received  the 
addresses  and  compliments  of  his  visitors.  I  was  not  in  a  hurry 
to  present  myself,  but  I  did  so  at  last  with  a  familiar,  yet  rather 
respectful,  air.  Dubois  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot,  and 
abruptly  turning  his  back  upon  me,  said  with  an  oath,  to  a 
courtier  who  stood  next  to  him, — "  The  plagues  of  Pharaoh 
are  come  again — only  instead  of  Egyptian  frogs  in  our  cham- 
bers, we  have  the  still  more  troublesome  guests — English  ad- 
venturers !  " 

Somehow  or  other  my  compliments  rarely  tell ;  I  am  lavish 
enough  of  them,  but  they  generally  have  the  air  of  sarcasms  ; 
thank  Heaven,  however,  no  one  can  accuse  me  of  ever  wanting 
a  rude  answer  to  a  rude  speech.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  said  I  now, 
in  answer  to  Dubois,  with  a  courteous  laugh,  "  you  have  an  ex- 
cellent wit,  Abbe.  Apropos  of  adventurers,  I  met  a  Monsieur 
St.  Laurent,  Principal  of  the  Institution  of  St.  Michael,  the 
other  day,  'Count,'  said  he,  hearing  I  was  going  to  Paris,  'you 
can  do  me  an  especial  favor  ! '  '  What  is  it  ? '  said  I.  *  Why  a 
cast-off  valet  of  mine  is  living  at  Paris — he  would  have  gone 
long  since  to  the  galleys,  if  he  had  not  taken  sanctuary  in  the 
Church — if  ever  you  meet  him  give  him  a  good  horsewhipping 
on  my  account :  his  name  is  William  Dubois.'  '  Depend  upon 
it,'  answered  I  to  Monsieur  St.  Laurent,  'that  if  he  is  servant 
to  anyone  not  belonging  to  the  royal  family,  I  will  fulfil  your 
errand,  and  horsewhip  him  soundly  ;  if  t'n  the  service  of  the 
royal  family,  why  respect  for  his  masters  must  oblige  me 
to  content  myself  with  putting  all  persons  on  their  guard 
against  a  little  rascal,  who  retains,  in  all  situations,  the  manners 
of  the  apothecary's  son,  and  the  roguery  of  the  director's 
valet.'  " 

All  the  time  I  was  relating  this  charming  little  anecdote,  it 
would  have  been  amusing  to  the  last  degree  to  note  the  horri- 


MVkkEtJk.  367 

fied  countenances  of  the  surrounding  gentlemen.  Dubois  was 
too  confounded,  too  aghast,  to  interrupt  me,  and  I  left  the  room 
before  a  single  syllable  was  uttered.  Had  Dubois  at  that  time 
been  what  he  was  afterwards,  cardinal  and  prime  minister,  I 
should  in  all  probability  have  had  permanent  lodgings  in  the 
Bastile,  in  return  for  my  story.  Even  as  it  was,  the  Abbe  was 
not  so  grateful  as  he  ought  to  have  been,  for  my  taking  so  much 
pains  to  amuse  him  !  In  spite  of  my  anger  on  leaving  the  favor- 
ite, I  did  not  forget  my  prudence,  and  accordingly  I  hastened 
to  the  Prince.  When  the  Regent  admitted  me,  I  flung  myself 
on  my  knee,  and  told  him,  verbatim,  all  that  had  happened. 
The  Regent,  who  seems  to  have  had  very  little  real  liking  for 
Dubois,  could  not  help  laughing  when  I  ludicrously  described 
to  him  the  universal  consternation  my  anecdote  had  excited.* 

"Courage,  my  dear  Count,"  said  he  kindly,  "you  have  noth- 
ing to  fear ;  return  home  and  count  upon  an  embassy  !  " 

I  relied  on  the  royal  word,  returned  to  my  lodgings,  and  spent 
the  evening  with  Chaulieu  and  Fontenelle.  The  next  day  the 
Due  de  St.  Simon  paid  me  a  visit.  After  a  little  preliminary- 
conversation,  he  unburthened  the  secret  with  which  he  was 
charged.     I  was  desired  to  leave  Paris  in  forty-eight  hours. 

"Believe  me,"  said  St.  Simon,  "that  this  message  was  not  en- 
trusted to  me  by  the  Regent,  without  great  reluctance.  He 
sends  you  many  condescending  and  kind  messages  ;  says  he 
shall  always  both  esteem  and  like  you,  and  hopes  to  see  you 
again,  some  time  or  other,  at  the  Palais  Royal.  Moreover,  he 
desires  the  message  to  be  private,  and  has  entrusted  it  tome  in 
especial,  because  hearing  that  I  had  a  kindness  for  you,  and 
knowing  I  had  a  hatred  for  Dubois,  he  thought  1  should  be  the 
least  unwelcome  messenger  of  such  disagreeable  tidings.  '  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  St.  Simon,'  said  the  Regent  laughing,  '  I  only 
consent  to  have  him  banished,  from  a  firm  conviction  that,  if  I 
do  not,  Dubois  will  take  some  opportunity  of  having  him  be- 
headed.'" 

"  Pray,"  said  T,  smiling  with  a  tolerable  good  grace,  "  pray 
give  my  most  grateful  and  humble  thanks  to  his  highness,  for 
his  very  considerate  and  kind  foresight.  I  could  not  have 
chosen  better  for  myself  than  his  highness  has  chosen  for  me  : 
my  only  regret  on  quitting  France  is  at  leaving  a  prince  so  af- 
fable as  Philip,  and  a  courtier  so  virtuous  as  St.  Simon." 

Though  the  good  Due  went  every  year  to  the  Abbey  de  la 

*  On  the  death  of  Duhois,  the  Regent  wrote  to  the  Count  de  Noc6,  whom  he  had  ban- 
ished for  an  indiscreet  expression  against  the  favorite,  uttered  .it  one  of  his  private  suppers  } 
"  With  the  beast  dies  the  venom  :  1  expect  you  to-night  to  supper  at  the  Palais  Royal," 


3o8  DEVEREUX, 

Trappe,  for  the  purpose  of  moriifying  his  sins  and  preserving 
his  religion,  in  so  impious  an  atmosphere  as  the  Palais  Royal,  he 
was  not  above  flattery  ;  and  he  expressed  himself  towards  me 
with  particular  kindness  after  my  speech. 

At  court,  one  becomes  a  sort  of  human  ant-bear,  and  learns 
to  catch  one's  prey  by  one's  tongue. 

After  we  had  eased  ourselves  a  little  by  abusing  Dubois,  the 
Due  took  his  leave  in  order  to  allow  me  time  to  prepare  for 
my  "  journey,"  as  he  politely  called  it.  Before  he  left,  he  how- 
ever asked  me  whither  my  course  would  be  bent.  I  told  him 
that  I  should  take  my  chance  v.'ith  the  Czar  Peter,  and  see  if 
his  czarship  thought  the  same  esteem  was  due  to  the  disgraced 
courtier,  as  to  the  favored  diplomatist. 

That  night  I  received  a  letter  from  St.  Simon,  enclosing  one 
addressed  with  all  due  form  to  the  Czar.  "  You  will  consider 
the  enclosed,"  wrote  St.  Simon,  '*  a  fresh  proof  of  the  Regent's 
kindness  to  you  ;  it  is  a  most  flattering  testimonial  in  your  favor, 
and  cannot  fail  to  make  the  Czar  anxious  to  secure  your  ser- 
vices." 

I  was  not  a  little  touched  by  a  kindness,  so  unusual  in  princes 
to  their  discarded  courtiers,  and  this  entirely  reconciled  me  to 
a  change  of  scene  which,  indeed,  under  any  other  circumstan- 
ces, my  somewhat  morbid  love  for  action  and  variety  would 
have  induced  me  rather  to  relish  than  dislike. 

Within  thirty-six  hours  from  the  time  of  dismissal,  I  had 
turned  my  back  upon  the  French  capital. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  long  Interval  of  Years. — A  Change  of  Mind  and  its  Causes. 

The  last  accounts  received  of  the  Czar  reported  him  to  be 
at  Dantzic.  He  had,  however,  quitted  that  place  when  I  ar- 
rived there.  I  lost  no  time  in  following  him,  and  presented 
myself  to  his  Majesty  one  day  after  his  dinner,  when  he  was 
sitting  with  one  leg  in  the  Czarina's  lap,  and  a  bottle  of  the 
best  eau  de  vie  before  him.  I  had  chosen  my  time  well  ;  he 
received  me  most  graciously,  read  my  letter  from  the  Regent — 
about  which,  remembering  the  fate  of  Bellerophon,  I  had  had 
.certain  apprehensions,  but  which  proved  to  be  in  the  highest 
degree  complimentary — and  then  declared  himself  extremely 
happy  to  see  me  again.  However  parsimonious  Peter  gener- 
ally was  towards  foreigners,  I  never  had  ground  for  personal 


DEVEREUX.  309 

doraplaint  6n  that  score.  The  very  next  day  I  was  appointed 
to  a  post  of  honor  and  profit  about  the  royal  person  ;  from 
tliis  I  was  transferred  to  a  military  station,  in  which  I  rose  with 
great  rapidity  ;  and  I  was  only  occasionally  called  from  my 
warlike  duties,  to  be  entrusted  with  diplomatic  missions  of  the 
highest  confidence  and  importance. 

It  is  this  portion  of  my  life — a  portion  of  nine  years,  to  the 
time  of  the  Czar's  death — that  I  shall,  in  this  history,  the  most 
concentrate  and  condense.  In  truth,  were  I  to  dwell  upon 
it  at  length,  I  should  make  little  more  than  a  mere  record  of 
political  events — differing,  in  some  respects,  it  is  true,  from  the 
received  histories  of  the  time^  but  containing  nothing  to  com- 
pensate in  utility  for  the  want  of  interest.  That  this  was  the 
exact  age  for  adventurers,  Alberoni  and  Dubois  are  sufficient 
proofs.  Never  was  there  a  more  stirring,  active,  restless  period  ; 
never  one  in  which  the  genius  of  intrigue  was  so  pervading- 
ly  at  work.  I  was  not  less  fortunate  than  my  brethren.  Al- 
though scarcely  four  and  twenty  when  I  entered  the  Czar's 
service,  my  habits  of  intimacy  with  men  much  older — my  cus- 
tomary gravity,  reserve,  and  thought — 'my  freedom,  since  Isora's 
death,  from  youthful  levity  or  excess — my  early  entrance  into 
the  world — and  a  countenance  prematurely  marked  with  lines 
of  reflection,  and  sobered  by  its  hue — made  me  appear  consid- 
erably older  than  I  was.  I  kept  my  own  counsel,  and  affected 
to  be  so  ;  youth  is  a  great  enemy  to  one's  success  ;  and  more 
esteem  is  often  bestowed  upon  a  wrinkled  brow  than  a  plod- 
ding brain. 

All  the  private  intelligence  which,  during  this  space  of  time,  I 
had  received  from  England  was  far  from  voluminous.  My 
mother  still  enjoyed  the  quiet  of  her  religious  retreat.  A  fire, 
arising  from  the  negligence  of  a  servant,  had  consumed 
nearly  the  whole  of  Devereux  Court  (the  fine  old  house  !  till 
that  went,  I  thought  even  England  held  one  friend).  Upon 
this  accident,  Gerald  had  gone  to  London  ;  and  though  there 
was  now  no  doubt  of  his  being  concerned  in  the  Rebellion  of 
1715,  he  had  been  favorably  received  at  court,  and  was  already 
renowned  throughout  London,  for  his  pleasures,  his  excesses, 
and  his  munificent  profusion. 

Montreuil,  whose  lot  seemed  to  be  always  to  lose,  by  intrigue, 
what  he  gained  by  the  real  solidity  of  his  genius,  had  embarked 
very  largely  in  the  rash  but  gigantic  schemes  of  Gortz  and  Alber- 
oni ;  schemes  which,  had  they  succeeded,  would  not  only  have 
placed  a  new  king  upon  the  English  throne,  but  wrought  an 
Utter  change  over  the  whole  face  of  Europe.     With  Alberoni 


316  beVEREUX. 

and  with  Gortz  fell  Montreuil.  He  was  banished  France  and 
Spain,  ;  the  penalty  of  death  awaited  him  in  Britain  ;  and  he 
was  supposed  to  have  tluown  himself  into  some  convent  in 
Italy,  where  his  name  and  his  character  were  unknown.  In 
this  brief  intelligence  was  condensed  all  my  information  of  the 
actors  in  my  first  scenes  of  life.  I  return  to  that  scene  on 
which  I  had  now  entered. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-three,  I  had  acquired  a  reputation  suffi- 
cient to  content  my  ambition — my  fortune  was  larger  than  my 
wants — I  was  a  favorite  in  courts — I  had  been  successful  in 
camps — I  had  already  obtained  all  that  would  have  rewarded 
the  whole  lives  of  many  men  superior  to  myself  in  merit — 
more  ardent  than  myself  in  desires.  I  was  still  young — my 
appearance,  though  greatly  altered,  manhood  had  rather  im- 
proved than  impaired.  I  had  not  forestalled  my  constitution 
by  excesses,  nor  worn  dry  the  sources  of  pleasure  by  too  large 
a  demand  upon  their  capacities;  why  was  it  then,  at  that  gold- 
en age — in  the  very  prime  and  glory  of  manhood — in  the  very 
zenith  and  summer  of  success — that  a  deep,  dark,  pervading  mel- 
ancholy fell  upon  me  ?  A  melancholy  so  gloomy  that  it  seemed 
to  be  as  a  thick  and  impenetrable  curtain  drawn  gradually  be- 
tween myself  and  the  blessed  light  of  human  enjoyment.  A 
torpor  crept  upon  me — an  indolent,  heavy,  clinging  languor, 
gathered  over  my  whole  frame — the  physical  and  the  mental : 
I  sat  for  hours  without  book,  paper,  object,  thought,  gazing  on 
vacancy — stirring  not — feeling  not — yes,  feeling,  but  feeling 
only  one  sensation,  a  sick,  sad,  drooping  despondency — a  sink- 
ing in  of  the  heart — a  sort  of  gnawing  within,  as  if  some- 
thing living  were  twisted  round  my  vitals,  and,  finding  no  other 
food,  preyed,  though  with  a  sickly  and  dull  maw,  upon  them. 
This  disease  came  upon  me  slowly  :  it  was  not  till  the  beginning 
of  a  second  year,  from  its  obvious  and  palpable  commencement, 
that  it  grew  to  the  height  that  I  have  described.  It  began  with 
a  distaste  to  all  that  I  had  been  accustomed  to  enjoy,  or  to 
pursue.  Music,  which  I  had  always  passionately  loved,  though 
from  some  defect  in  the  organs  of  hearing  I  was  incapable  of 
attaining  the  smallest  knowledge  of  the  science,  music  lost  all  its 
diviner  spells,  all  its  properties  of  creating  a  new  existence,  a 
life  of  dreaming  and  vague  luxuries,  within  the  mind — it  be- 
came only  a  monotonous  sound,  less  grateful  tothelanguorof  my 
faculties  than  utter  and  dead  stillness.  I  had  never  been  what 
is  generally  termed  a  boon  companion,  but  I  had  had  the  social 
vanities,  if  not  the  social  tastes  :  I  had  insensibly  loved  the 
board  which  echoed   with   applause  at    my   sallies,    and  the 


DEVEREUX.  311 

comrades  who,  while  they  deprecated  my  satire,  had  been  com- 
plaisant enough  to  hail  it  as  wit.  One  of  my  weaknesses  is 
a  love  of  show,  and  I  had  gratified  a  feeling  not  the  less 
cherished  because  it  arose  from  a  petty  source,  in  obtaining  for 
my  equipages,  my  mansion,  my  banquets,  the  celebrity  which 
is  given  no  less  to  magnificence  than  to  fame ;  now  I  grew  in- 
different alike  to  the  signs  of  pomp,  and  to  the  baubles  of  taste  ; 
praise  fell  upon  a  listless  ear,  and  (rare  pitch  of  satiety  !)  the 
pleasures  that  are  the  offspring  of  our  foibles  delighted  me  no 
more.  I  had  early  learned  from  Bolingbroke  a  love  for  the 
converse  of  men,  eminent,  whether  for  wisdom  or  for  wit ;  the 
graceful  badinage,  or  the  keen  critique — the  sparkling  flight  of 
the  winged  words  which  encircled  and  rebounded  from  lip  to 
lip,  or  the  deep  speculation  upon  the  mysterious  and  unravelled 
wonders  of  man,  of  nature  and  the  world — the  light  maxim 
upon  manners,  or  the  sage  inquiry  into  the  mines  of  learn- 
ing;  all  and  each  had  possessed  a  link  to  bind  my  temper  and 
my  tastes  to  the  graces  and  fascination  of  social  life.  Now  a 
new  spirit  entered  within  me  :  the  smile  faded  from  my  lip,  and 
the  jest  departed  from  my  tongue  ;  memory  seemed  no  less 
treacherous  than  fancy,  and  deserted  me  the  instant  I  at- 
tempted to  enter  into  those  contests  of  knowledge  in  which  I 
had  been  not  undistinguished  before.  I  grew  confused  and 
embarrassed  in  speech — my  words  expressed  a  sense  utterly 
different  to  that  which  I  had  intended  to  convey,  and  at  last,  as 
my  apathy  increased,  I  sat  at  my  own  board,  silent  and  lifeless, 
freezing  into  ice  the  very  powers  and  streams  of  converse 
which  1  had  once  been  the  foremost  to  circulate  and  to  warm. 

At  the  time  I  refer  to,  I  was  minister  at  one  of  the  small  con- 
tinental courts,  where  life  is  a  round  of  unmeaning  etiquette 
and  wearisome  ceremonials,  a  daily  labor  of  trifles — a  ceaseless 
pageantry  of  nothings — I  had  been  sent  there  upon  one  impor- 
tant event,  the  business  resulting  from  it  had  soon  ceased,  and 
all  the  duties  that  remained  for  me  to  discharge  were  or  a  nega- 
tive and  passive  nature.  Nothing  that  could  arouse — nothing 
that  could  occupy  faculties  that  had  for  years  been  so  perpetu- 
ally wound  up  to  a  restless  excitement  was  left  for  me  in  this 
terrible  reservoir  of  ennui.  I  had  come  thither  at  once  from 
the  skirmishing  and  wild  warfare  of  a  Tartar  foe ;  a  war  in 
which,  though  the  glory  was  obscure,  the  action  was  perpetual 
and  exciting.  I  had  come  thither,  and  the  change  was  as  if  I 
had  passed  from  a  mountain  stream  to  a  stagnant  pool. 

Society  at  this  court  reminded  me  of  a  slate  funeral,  everything 
was  pompous  and  lugubrious,  ev^n  to  the  drapery — even  to  tb^ 


312  DEVEREUX. 

feathers — which,  in  other  scenes,  would  have  been  consecrated 
to  associations  of  levity  or  of  grace  ;  the  hourly  pageant  swept 
on,  slow,  tedious,  mournful,  and  the  object  of  the  attendants  was 
only  to  entomb  the  Pleasure  which  they  affected  to  celebrate. 
What  a  change  for  the  wild,  the  strange,  the  novel,  the  intrigu- 
ing, the  varying  life,  which,  whether  in  courts  or  camps,  I  had 
hitherto  led.  The  internal  change  that  came  over  myself  is 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at ;  the  winds  stood  still,  and  the  straw 
they  had  blown  from  quarter  to  quarter,  whether  in  anger  or  in 
sport,  began  to  moulder  upon  the  spot  where  they  had  lt;ft  it. 

From  this  cessation  of  the  aims,  hopes,  and  thoughts  of  life, 
I  was  awakened  by  the  spreading,  as  it  were,  of  another  dis- 
ease— the  dead,  dull,  aching  pain  at  my  heart,  was  succeeded 
by  one  acute  and  intense  ;  the  absence  of  thought  gave  way  to 
one  thought  more  terrible — more  dark — more  despairing  than 
any  which  had  haunted  me  since  the  first  year  of  Isora's  death; 
and  from  a  numbness  and  pause,  as  it  were,  of  existence,  exis- 
tence became  too  keen  and  intolerable  a  sense.  I  will  enter 
into  an  explanation. 

At  the  Court  of ,  there  was  an  Italian,  not  uncelebrated 

for  his  wisdom,  nor  unbeloved  for  an  innocence  and  integrity 
of  life,  rarely  indeed  to  be  met  with  among  his  countrymen. 
The  acquaintance  of  this  man,  who  was  about  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  who  was  devoted,  almost  exclusively,  to  the  pursuit  of  philo- 
sophical science  I  had  sedulously  cultivated.  His  conversa- 
tion pleased  me ;  his  wisdom  improved  ;  and  his  benevolence, 
which  reminded  me  of  the  traits  of  La  Fontaine,  it  was  so  in- 
fantine, made  me  incline  to  love  him.  Upon  the  growth  of  the 
fearful  malady  of  mind  which  seized  me,  I  had  discontinued 
my  visits  and  my  invitations  to  the  Italian  :  and  Bezoni  (so  was 
he  called)  felt  a  little  offended  by  niy  neglect.  As  soon,  how- 
ever, as  he  discovered  my  state  of  mind,  the  good  man's  resent- 
ment left  him.  He  forced  himself  upon  my  solitude,  and  would 
sit  by  me  whole  evenings — sometimes  without  exchanging  a 
word — sometimes  with  vain  attempts  to  interest,  to  arouse,  or 
to  amuse  me. 

At  last  one  evening,  it  was  the  era  of  a  fearful  suffering  to 
me,  our  conversation  turned  upon  those  subjects  which  are  at 
once  the  most  important,  and  the  most  rarely  discussed.  We 
spoke  oi  religion.  We  first  talked  upon  the  theology  of  revealed 
religion.  As  Bezoni  warmed  into  candor,  I  perceived  that  his 
doctrines  differed  from  my  own,  and  that  he  inly  disbelieved 
that  divine  creed  which  Christians  profess  to  adore.  From  a 
dispute  on  the  ground  of  faith,  we  came  to  one  upon  the  more 


DEVEREUX.  313 

debatable  ground  of  reason.  We  turned  from  the  subject  of 
revealed,  to  that  of  natural,  religion  ;  and  we  entered  long  and 
earnestly  into  that  grandest  of  all  earthly  speculations — the 
metaphysical  proofs  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Again  the 
sentiments  of  Bezoni  were  opposed  to  mine.  He  was  a  believer 
in  the  dark  doctrine  which  teaches  that  man  is  dust,  and  that 
all  things  are  forgotten  in  the  grave.  He  expressed  his  opinions 
with  a  clearness  and  precision  the  more  impressive  because 
totally  devoid  of  cavil  and  of  rhetoric.  I  listened  in  silence, 
but  with  a  deep  and  most  chilling  dismay.  Even  now  I  think 
I  see  the  man  as  he  sat  before  me,  the  light  of  the  lamp  falling 
on  his  high  forehead  and  dark  features;  even  now  I  think  I  hear 
his  calm,  low  voice — the  silver  voice  of  his  country — stealing  to 
my  heart,  and  withering  the  only  pure  and  unsullied  hope  which 
I  yet  cherished  there. 

Bezoni  left  me,  unconscious  of  the  anguish  he  bequeathed 
me,  to  think  over  all  he  had  said.  I  did  not  sleep,  nor  even  re- 
tire to  bed.  1  laid  my  head  upon  my  hands,  and  surrendered 
myself  to  turbulent,  yet  intense,  reflection.  Every  man  who  has 
lived  much  in  the  world,  and  conversed  with  its  various  tribes, 
has,  I  fear,  met  with  many  who,  on  this  momentous  subject,  pro- 
fess the  same  tenets  as  Bezoni.  But  he  was  the  first  person  I 
had  met  of  that  sect  who  had  evidently  thought  long  and  deep- 
ly upon  the  creed  he  had  embraced.  He  was  not  a  voluptuary, 
nor  a  boaster,  nor  a  wit.  He  had  not  been  misled  by  the  de- 
lusions either  of  vanity  or  of  the  senses.  He  was  a  man,  pure, 
innocent,  modest,  full  of  all  tender  charities,  and  meek  dis- 
positions towards  mankind  ;  it  was  evidently  his  interest  to  be- 
lieve in  a  future  state:  he  could  have  had  nothing  to  fear  from 
it.  Not  a  single  passion  did  he  cherish  which  the  laws  of  an- 
other world  would  have  condemned.  Add  to  this,  what  I  have 
observed  before,  that  he  was  not  a  man  fond  of  the  display  of 
intellect,  nor  one  that  brought  to  the  discussions  of  wisdom  the 
artillery  of  wit.  He  was  grave,  humble,  and  self-diffident,  be- 
yond all  beings.  I  would  have  given  a  kingdom  to  have  found 
something  in  the  advocate  by  which  I  could  have  condemned 
the  cause.     I  could  not,  and  I  was  wretched. 

I  spent  the  whole  of  the  next  week  among  my  books.  I  ran- 
sacked whatever  in  my  scanty  library  the  theologians  had  writ- 
ten, or  the  philosophers  had  bequeathed  upon  that  mighty  secret. 
I  arranged  their  arguments  in  my  mind.  I  armed  myself  with 
their  weapons.  I  felt  my  heart  spring  joyously  within  me  as  I 
felt  the  strength  I  had  acquired,  and  I  sent  to  the  philosopher 
to  visit  me,  that  I   might  conquer  and  confute  him.     He  came; 


314  DEVEREUX. 

but  he  spoke  with  pain  and  reluctance.  He  saw  that  I  had 
taken  the  matter  far  more  deeply  to  heart  than  he  could  have 
supposed  it  possible  in  a  courtier,  and  a  man  of  fortune  and  the 
world.  Little  did  he  know  of  me  or  my  secret  soul.  I  broke 
down  his  reserve  at  last.  I  unrolled  my  arguments.  I  answered 
his,  and  we  spent  the  whole  night  in  a  controversy.  He  left 
me,  and  I  was  more  bewildered  than  ever. 

To  speak  truth,  he  had  devoted  years  to  the  subject  :  I  had 
devoted  only  a  week.  He  had  come  to  his  conclusions  step 
by  step  ;  he  had  reached  the  great  ultimatum  with  slowness, 
with  care,  and,  he  confessed,  with  anguish  and  with  reluctance. 
What  a  match  was  I,  who  brought  a  hasty  temper,  and  a  limited 
reflection,  on  that  subject,  to  a  reasonerlike  this  ?  His  candor 
staggered  and  chilled  me  even  more  than  his  logic.  Arguments 
that  occurred  not  to  me,  upon  my  side  of  the  question,  /^<?  stated 
at  length,  and  with  force  ;  I  heard,  and,  till  he  replied  to  them, 
I  deemed  they  were  unanswerable — the  reply  came,  and  I  had 
no  counter-word.  A  meetingof  this  nature  was  often  repeated  ; 
and  when  he  left  me,  tears  crept  into  my  wild  eyes,  my  heart 
melted  within  me,  and  I  wept  ! 

I  must  now  enter  more  precisely  than  I  have  yet  done  into 
my  state  of  mind  upon  religious  matters  at  the  time  this  dispute 
with  the  Italian  occurred.  To  speak  candidly,  I  had  been  far 
less  shocked  with  his  opposition  to  me  upon  matters  of  doctri- 
nal faith,  than  with  that  upon  matters  of  abstract  reasoning. 
Bred  a  Roman  Catholic,  though  pride,  consistency,  custom, 
made  me  externally  adhere  to  the  Papal  Church,  I  inly  perceived 
its  errors,  and  smiled  at  its  superstitions.  And  in  the  busy 
world,  where  so  little  but  present  objects,  or  human  anticipa- 
tions of  the  future,  engross  the  attention,  I  had  never  given  the 
subject  that  consideration  which  would  have  enabled  me  (as  it 
has  since)  to  separate  the  dogmas  of  the  priest  from  the  pre- 
cepts of  the  Saviour,  and  thus  confirmedmy  belief  as  the  Chris- 
tian, by  the  very  means  which  would  have  loosened  it  as  the 
Sectarian.  So  that  at  the  time  Bezoni  knew  me,  a  certain  in- 
difference to — perhaps  arising  from  an  ignorance  of — doctrinal 
points,  rendered  me  little  hurt  by  arguments  against  opinions 
which  I  embraced  indeed,  but  with  a  lukewarm  and  imperfect 
affection.  But  it  was  far  otherwise  upon  abstract  points  of  rea- 
soning ;  far  otherwise,  when  the  hope  of  surviving  this  frail  and 
most  unhallowed  being  was  to  be  destroyed.  I  might  have  been 
indifferent  to  cavil  upon  what  was  the  word  of  God,  but  never 
to  question  of  the  justice  of  God  himself.  In  the  whole  world, 
there  was  not  a  more  ardent  believer  in  our  imperishable  nature, 


DEVEREUX,  315 

nor  one  more  deeply  interested  in  the  belief.  Do  not  let  it  be 
supposed  that  because  I  have  not  often  recurred  to  Isora's  death 
(or  because  I  have  continued  my  history  in  a  jesting  and  light 
tone),  that  that  event  ever  passed  from  the  memory  which  it  had 
turned  to  bitterness  and  gall.  Never,  in  the  mazes  of  intrigue, 
in  the  festivals  of  pleasure,  in  the  tumults  of  ambition,  in  the 
blaze  of  a  licentious  court,  or  by  the  rude  tents  of  a  barbarous 
host, — never,  my  buried  love,  had  I  forgotten  thee  !  That  re- 
membrance, had  no  other  cause  existed,  would  have  led  me  to 
God.  Every  night  in  whatever  toils  or  objects,  whatever  fail- 
ures or  triumphs,  the  day  had  been  consumed — every  night,  be- 
fore I  laid  my  head  upon  my  widowed  and  lonely  pillow,  I  had 
knelt  down,  and  lifted  my  heart  to  Heaven,  blending  the  hopes 
of  that  heaven  with  the  memory  and  the  vision  of  Isora.  Prayer 
had  seemed  to  me  a  commune  not  only  with  the  living  God,  but 
with  the  dead  by  whom  His  dwelling  is  surrounded.  Pleasant 
and  soft  was  it  to  turn  to  one  thought,  to  which  all  the  holiest 
portions  of  my  nature  clung,  between  the  wearying  acts  of  this 
hard  and  harsh  drama  of  existence.  Even  the  bitterness  of 
Isora's  early  and  unavenged  death  passed  away,  when  I  thought 
of  the  heaven  to  which  she  was  gone,  and  in  which,  though  I 
journeyed  now  through  sin  and  travail,  and  recked  little  if  the 
paths  of  others  differed  from  my  own,  I  yet  trusted,  with  a 
solemn  trust,  that  I  should  meet  her  at  last.  There  was  I  to 
merit  her  with  a  love  as  undying,  and  at  length  as  pure,  as  her 
own.  It  was  this  that  at  the  stated  hour  in  which,  after  my 
prayer  for  our  reunion,  I  surrendered  my  spirit  to  the  bright 
and  wild  visions  of  her  far,  but  not  impassable  home, — it  was 
this  which  for  that  single  hour  made  all  around  me  a  paradise 
of  delighted  thoughts  !  It  was  not  the  little  earth,  nor  the  cold 
sky,  nor  the  changing  wave,  nor  the  perishable  turf — no,  nor 
the  dead  wall,  and  the  narrow  chamber  which  were  round  me 
then  !  No  dreamer  ever  was  so  far  from  the  localities  of  flesh 
and  life  as  I  was  in  that  enchanted  hour  :  a  light  seemed  to 
settle  upon  all  things  round  me  ;  her  voice  murmured  on  my 
ear,  her  kisses  melted  on  my  brow  ;  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I 
fancied  that  I  beheld  her  ! 

Wherefore  was  this  comfort  ? — whence  came  the  spell  which 
admitted  me  to  this  fairy  land  ?  What  was  the  source  of  the 
hope,  and  the  rapture,  and  the  delusion  ?  Was  it  not  the  deep 
certainty  that  Isora  yet  existed — that  her  spirit,  her  nature,  her 
love  were  preserved,  were  inviolate,  were  the  same  ?  That  they 
watched  over  me  yet,  that  she  knew  that  in  that  hour  I  was  with 
her — that  she  felt  my  prayer — that  even   then  she  anticipated 


3i6  DEVEREUX. 

the  moment  when  my  soul  should  burst  the  human  prlsotl- 
house,  and  be  once  more  blended  with  her  own  ? 

What  !  and  was  this  to  be  no  more  ?  Were  those  mystic  and 
sweet  revealings  to  be  mute  to  me  for  ever  ?  Were  my  thoughts 
of  Isora  to  be  henceforth  bounded  to  the  charnel  house  and  the 
worm  ?  Was  she  indeed  ?io  more  ?  No  more — O,  intolerable 
despair  ! — Why,  there  was  not  a  thing  I  had  once  known,  not  a 
dog  that  I  had  caressed,  not  a  book  that  I  had  read,  which  I 
could  know  that  I  should  see  710  more,  and,  knowing,  not  feel 
something  of  regret.  No  more  !  were  we,  indeed,  parted  for- 
ever and  forever  ?  Had  she  gone  in  her  young  years,  with  her 
warm  affections,  her  new  hopes,  all  green  and  unwithered  at  her 
heart,  at  once  into  dust,  stillness,  ice?  And  had  I  known  her 
only  for  one  year,  one  little  year,  to  see  her  torn  from  me  by  a 
violent  and  bloody  death,  and  to  be  left  a  mourner  in  this  vast 
and  eternal  charnel,  without  a  solitary  consolation,  or  a  gleam 
of  hope  ?  Was  the  earth  to  be  henceforth  a  mere  mass  con- 
jured from  the  bones  and  fattened  by  the  clay  of  our  dead 
sires  ? — were  the  stars  and  the  moon  to  be  mere  atoms  and 
specks  of  a  chill  light,  no  longer  worlds,  which  the  ardent  spirit 
might  hereafter  reach,  and  be  fitted  to  enjoy  ?  Was  the 
heaven — the  tender,  blue,  loving  heaven,  in  whose  far  regions 
I  had  dreamt  was  Isora's  home,  and  had,  therefore,  grown  bet- 
ter and  happier  when  I  gazed  upon  it,  to  be  nothing  but  cloud 
and  air  ?  and  had  the  love,  which  had  seemed  so  immortal,  and 
so  springing  from  that  which  had  not  blent  itself  with  mortality, 
been  but  a  gross  lamp  fed  only  by  the  properties  of  a  brute 
nature,  and  placed  in  a  dark  cell  of  clay,  to  glimmer,  to  burn, 
and  to  expire  with  the  frail  walls  which  it  had  illumined  ? 
Dust,  death,  worms, — were  these  the  heritage  of  love  and  hope, 
of  thought,  of  passion,  of  all  that  breathed,  and  kindled,  and 
exalted,  and  created  within  ? 

Could  I  contemplate  this  idea,  could  I  believe  it  possible  ? 
I  could  not.  But  against  the  abstract,  the  logical  arguments 
for  that  idea — had  I  a  reply  ?  I  shudder  as  I  write  that  dXthat 
time  I  had  not  !  I  endeavored  to  fix  my  whole  thoughts  to  the 
study  of  those  subtile  reasonings  which  I  had  hitherto  so  im- 
perfectly conned  ;  but  my  mind  was  jarring,  irresolute,  bewild- 
ered, confused  ;  my  stake  seemed  too  vast  to  allow  me  coolness 
for  the  game. 

Whoever  has  had  cause  for  some  refined  and  deep  study  in 
the  midst  of  the  noisy  and  loud  world,  may  perhaps  readily 
comprehend  that  feeling  which  now  posse=;sed  me  ;  a  feeling 
that  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  abstract  and  concentrate  one's 


DEVEREUX,  317 

thoughts,  while  at  the  mercy  of  every  intruder,  and  fevered  and 
fretful  by  every  disturbance.  Men,  early  and  long  accustomed 
to  mingle  such  reflections  with  the  avocations  of  courts  and 
cities,  have  grown  callous  to  these  interruptions,  and  it  has  been 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  multitude  that  the  profoundest  specu- 
lations have  been  cherished  and  produced  ;  but  I  was  not  of 
this  mould.  The  world,  which  before  had  been  distasteful, 
now  grew  insufferable  ;  I  longed  for  some  seclusion,  some  utter 
solitude,  some  quiet  and  unpenetrated  nook,  that  I  might  give 
my  undivided  mind  to  the  knowledge  of  these  things,  and  build 
the  tower  of  divine  reasonings  by  which  I  might  ascend  to 
heaven.  It  was  at  this  time,  and  in  the  midst  of  my  fiercest 
internal  conflict,  that  the  great  Czar  died,  and  I  was  suddenly 
recalled  to  Russia. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  when  I  heard  of  my  release,  "  now  shall  my 
wishes  be  fulfilled."    • 

I  sent  to  Bezoni.  He  came,  but  he  refused,  as  indeed  he  had 
for  some  time  done,  to  speak  to  me  further  upon  the  question 
which  so  wildly  engrossed  me.  "  I  forgive  you,"  said  I,  when 
we  parted,  "  I  forgive  you  for  all  that  you  have  cost  me  ;  I  feel 
that  the  moment  is  now  at  hand  when  my  faith  shall  frame  a 
weapon  wherewith  to  triumph  over  yours  !  " 

Father  in  Heaven  !  thanks  be  to  thee  that  my  doubts  were 
at  last  removed,  and  the  cloud  rolled  away  from  my  soul. 

Bezoni  embraced  me,  and  wept  over  me.  **  All  good  men," 
said  he,  "  have  a  mighty  interest  in  your  success  ;  for  me  there 
is  nothing  dark,  even  in  the  mute  grave,  if  it  covers  the  ashes 
of  one  who  has  loved  and  served  his  brethren,  and  done,  with 
a  wilful  heart,  no  living  creature  wrong." 

Soon  afterwards  the  Italian  lost  his  life  in  attending  the 
victims  of  a  fearful  and  contagious  disease,  whom  even  the 
regular  practitioners  of  the  healing  art  hesitated   to  visit. 

At  this  moment  I  am,  in  the  strictest  acceptation  of  the 
words,  a  believer  and  a  Christian.  I  have  neither  anxiety  nor 
doubt  upon  the  noblest  and  the  most  comforting  of  all  creeds, 
and  I  am  grateful,  among  the  other  blessings  wliich  faith  has 
brought  me — I  am  grateful  that  it  has  brought  me  CHARITY  ! 
Dark  to  all  human  beings  was  Bezoni's  doctrine — dark,  above 
all,  to  those  who  have  mourned  on  earth  ;  so  withering  to  all 
the  hopes  which  cling  the  most  enduringly  to  the  heart,  was 
his  unhappy  creed — that  he  who  knows  how  inseparably,  though 
insensibly,  our  moral  legislation  is  woven  with  our  supposed 
self-interest,  will  scarcely  marvel  at,  even  while  he  condemns, 
the  unwise  and  unholy  persecution  which  that  creed  univers- 


3rS  DEVEREUX. 

ally  sustains  !  Many  a  most  wretched  hour,  many  a  pang  of 
agony  and  despair,  did  those  doctrines  inflict  upon  myself  ;  but 
I  know  that  the  intention  of  Bezoni  was  benevolence,  and  that 
the  practice  of  his  life  was  virtue  :  and  while  my  reason  tells 
me  that  God  will  not  punish  the  reluctant  and  involuntary 
error  of  one  to  whom  all  God's  creatures  were  so  dear,  my  re- 
ligion bids  me  hope  that  I  shall  meet  him  in  that  world  where 
no  error  is,  and  where  the  Great  Spirit,  to  whom  all  human 
passions  are  unknown,  avenges  the  momentary  doubt  of  His 
justice  by  a  proof  of  the  infinity  of  His  mercy. 


BOOK  VI, 


CHAPTER  I. 
The  Retreat. 

I  ARRIVED  at  St.  Petersburgh,  and  found  the  Czarina,  whose 
conjugal  perfidy  was  more  than  suspected,  tolerably  resigned  to 
the  extinction  of  that  dazzling  life,  whose  incalculable  and  god- 
like utility  it  is  reserved  for  posterity  to  appreciate  !  I  have 
observed,  by  the  way,  that,  in  general,  men  are  the  less 
mourned  by  their  families  in  proportion  as  they  are  the  more 
mourned  by  the  community.  The  great  are  seldom  amiable  ; 
and  those  who  are  the  least  lenient  to  our  errors  are  invariably 
our  relations  ! 

Many  circumstances  at  that  time  conspired  to  make  my  re- 
quest to  quit  the  imperial  service  appear  natural  and  appropri- 
ate. The  death  of  the  Czar,  joined  to  a  growing  jealousy  and 
suspicion  between  the  English  monarch  and  Russia,  which, 
though  long  existing,  was  now  become  more  evident  and  notor- 
ious than  heretofore,  gave  me  full  opportunity  to  observe  that 
my  pardon  had  been  obtained  from  King  George  three  years 
since,  and  that  private  as  well  as  national  ties  rendered  my 
return  to  England  a  measure  not  only  of  expediency  but  neces- 
sity. The  imperial  Catherine  granted  me  my  dismissal  in  the 
most  flattering  terms,  and  added  the  high  distinction  of  the  order 
founded  in  honor  of  the   memorable  feat  by   which  she  had 


DEVEREUX.  319 

saved  her  royal  consort  and  the  Russian  army^  to  the  order  of 
St.  Andrew,  which  I  had  aheady  received. 

I  transferred  my  wealth,  now  immense,  to  England,  and,  with 
the  pomp  which  became  the  rank  and  reputation  Fortune  had 
bestowed  upon  me,  I  commenced  the  long  land  journey  I  had 
chalked  out  to  myself.  Although  I  had  alleged  my  wish  to 
revisit  England  as  the  main  reason  for  my  retirement  from 
Russia,  I  had  also  expressed  an  intention  of  visiting  Italy  pre- 
vious to  my  return  to  England.  The  physicians,  indeed,  had 
recommended  to  me  that  delicious  climate  as  an  antidote  to  the 
ills  my  constitution  had  sustained  in  the  freezing  skies  of  the 
north  ;  and  in  my  own  heart  I  had  secretly  appointed  some 
more  solitary  part  of  the  Divine  Land  for  the  scene  of  my  pur- 
posed hermitage  and  seclusion.  It  is  indeed  astonishing  how 
those  who  have  lived  much  in  cold  climates  yearn  for  lands  of 
mellow  light  and  summer  luxuriance  ;  and  I  felt  for  a  southern 
sky  the  same  resistless  longing  which  sailors,  in  the  midst  of  the 
▼ast  ocean,  have  felt  for  the  green  fields  and  various  landscape 
of  the  shore. 

I  traversed,  then,  the  immense  tracts  of  Russia — passed 
through  Hungary — entered  Turkey,  which  I  had  wished  to 
visit,  where  I  remained  a  short  time ;  and,  crossing  the  Adri- 
atic, hailed,  for  the  first  time,  the  Ausonian  shore.  It  was  the 
month  of  May — that  month,  of  whose  lustrous  beauty  none 
in  a  northern  clime  can  dream — that  I  entered  Italy.  It  may 
serve  as  an  instance  of  the  power  with  which  a  thought,  that, 
however  important,  is  deemed  of  too  abstract  and  metaphysical 
a  nature  deeply  to  engross  the  mind,  possessed  me  then,  that 
I — no  cold  nor  unenthusiastic  votary  of  the  classic  Muse — made 
no  pilgrimage  to  city  or  ruin,  but,  after  a  brief  sojourn  at 
Ravenna,  where  I  dismissed  all  my  train,  set  out  alone  to  find 
the  solitary  cell  for  which  I  now  sickened  with  a  hermit's 
love. 

It  was  in  a  small  village  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines  that  1 
found  the  object  of  my  search.  Strangely  enough,  there 
blended  with  my  philosophical  ardor  a  deep  mixture  of  my  old 
romance.  Nature,  to  whose  voice  the  dweller  in  cities,  and 
struggler  with  mankind,  had  been  so  long  obtuse,  now  pleaded 
audibly  at  my  heart,  and  called  me  to  her  embraces,  as  a 
mother  calls  unto  her  wearied  child.  My  eye,  as  with  a  new 
vision,  became  opened  to  the  mute  yet  eloquent  loveliness  of 
this  most  fairy  earth  :  and  hill  and  valley — the  mirror  of  silent 
waters — the  sunny  stillness  of  woods,  and  the  old  haunts  of 
satyr  and  nymph — revived  in  me  the  fountains  of  past  poetry, 


320  DEVEREUX. 

and  became  the  receptacles  of  a  thousand  spells,  mightier  than 
the  charms  of  any  enchanter  save  Love — which  was  departed — 
Youth,  which  was  nearly  gone — and  Nature,  which  (more  viv- 
idly than  ever)  existed  for  me  still. 

I  chose,  then,  my  retreat.  As  I  was  fastidious  in  its  choice, 
I  cannot  refrain  from  the  luxury  of  describing  it.  Ah,  little  did 
I  dream  that  I  had  come  thither,  not  only  to  find  a  divine 
comfort,  but  the  sources  of  a  human  and  most  passionate  woe  ! 
Mightiest  of  the  Roman  bards  !  in  whom  tenderness  and  reason 
were  so  entwined,  and  who  didst  sanctify  even  thine  unholy 
errors  with  so  beautiful  and  so  rare  a  genius  !  what  an  invari- 
able truth  one  line  of  thine  has  expressed  :  "  Even  in  the  fair- 
est fountain  of  delight  there  is  a  secret  and  evil  spring  eternally 
bubbling  up  and  scattering  its  bitter  waters  over  the  very 
flowers  which  surround  its  margin  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  a  lovely  and  tranquil  vale  was  a  small  cot- 
tage ;  that  was  my  home.  The  good  people  there  performed 
for  me  all  the  hospitable  offices  1  required.  At  a  neighboring 
monastery  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  make  myself  known 
to  the  superior.  Not  all  Italians — no,  nor  all  monks — belong 
to  either  of  the  two  great  tribes  into  which  they  are  generally 
divided — knaves  or  fools.  The  Abbot  Anselmo  was  a  man  of 
rather  a  liberal  and  enlarged  mind  ;  he  not  only  kept  my  secret, 
which  was  necessary  to  my  peace,  but  he  took  my  part,  which 
was,  perhaps,  necessary  to  my  safety.  A  philosopher,  who  de- 
sires only  to  convince  himself,  and  upon  one  subject,  does  not 
require  many  books.  Truth  lies  in  a  small  compass ;  and  for 
my  part,  in  considering  any  speculative  subject,  I  would  sooner 
have  with  me  one  book  of  Euclid,  as  a  model,  than  all  the 
library  of  the  Vatican,  as  authorities.  But  then  I  am  not  fond 
of  drawing  upon  any  resources  but  those  of  reason  for  reason- 
ings ;  wistr  men  than  I  am  are  not  so  strict.  The  few  books 
that  I  did  require  were,  however,  of  a  nature  very  illicit  in 
Italy  ;  the  good  father  passed  them  to  me  from  Ravenna,  under 
his  own  protection.  "  I  was  a  holy  man,"  he  said, "  who  wished 
to  render  the  Catholic  church  a  great  service,  by  writing  a  vast 
book  against  certain  atrocious  opinions ;  and  the  works  I  read 
were,  for  the  most  part,  works  that  I  was  about  to  confute." 
This  report  gained  me  protection  and  respect  ;  and,  after  I  had 
ordered  my  agent  at  Ravenna  to  forward  to  the  excellent  Abbot 
a  piece  of  plate,  and  a  huge  cargo  of  a  rare  Hungary  wine,  it 
was  not  the  Abbot's  fault  if  I  was  not  the  most  popular  person 
in  the  neighborhood. 

But  to  my  description  : — my  home  was  a  cottage — the  valley 


DEVEREUX.  3^1 

in  which  it  lay  was  divided  by  a  mountain  stream,  which  came 
from  the  forest  Apennine,  a  sparkling  and  wild  stranger,  and 
softened  into  quiet  and  calm  as  it  proceeded  through  its  green 
margin  in  the  vale.  And  that  margin,  how  dazzlingly  green  it 
was  !  At  the  distance  of  about  a  mile  from  my  hut,  the  stream 
was  broken  into  a  slight  waterfall,  whose  sound  was  heard  dis- 
tinct and  deep  in  that  still  place  :  and  often  I  paused,  from  my 
midnight  thoughts,  to  listen  to  its  enchanted  and  wild  melody. 
The  fall  was  unseen  by  the  ordinary  wanderer,  for  there  the 
stream  passed  through  a  thick  copse  ;  and  even  when  you 
pierced  the  grove,  and  gained  the  water-side,  dark  trees  hung 
over  the  turbulent  wave,  and  the  silver  spray  was  thrown 
upward  through  the  leaves,  and  fell  in  diamonds  upon  the  deep 
green  sod. 

This  was  a  most  favored  haunt  with  me  ;  the  sun  glancing 
through  the  idle  leaves — the  music  of  the  water — the  solemn 
absence  of  all  other  sounds,  except  the  songs  of  birds,  to 
which  the  ear  grew  accustomed,  and,  at  last,  in  the  abstraction 
of  thought,  scarcely  distinguished  from  the  silence — the  fragrant 
herbs — and  the  unnumbered  and  nameless  flowers  which  formed 
my  couch — were  all  calculated  to  make  me  pursue  uninterrupt- 
edly the  thread  of  contemplation  which  I  had,  in  the  less  volup- 
tuous and  harsher  solitude  of  the  closet,  first  woven  from  the 
web  of  austerest  thought.  I  say  pursue,  for  it  was  too  luxuri- 
ous and  sensual  a  retirement  for  the  conception  of  a  rigid  and 
severe  train  of  reflection  ;  at  least  it  would  have  been  so  to  me. 
But,  when  the  thought  is  once  born,  such  scenes  seem  to  me  the 
most  fit  to  cradle  and  to  rear  it.  The  torpor  of  the  physical, 
appears  to  leave  to  the  mental,  frame  a  full  scope  and  power  ; 
the  absence  of  human  cares,  sounds,  and  intrusions,  becomes 
the  best  nurse  to  contemplation  ;  and  even  that  delicious  and 
vague  sense  of  enjoyment  which  would  seem,  at  first,  more 
genial  to  the  fancy  than  the  mind,  preserves  the  thought 
undisturbed,  because  contented  ;  so  that  all  but  the  scheming 
mind  becomes  lapped  in  sleep,  and  the  mind  itself  lives  distinct 
and  active  as  a  dream  ;  a  dream,  not  vague,  nor  confused,  nor 
unsatisfying,  but  endowed  with  more  than  the  clearness,  the 
precision,  the  vigor  of  waking  life. 

A  little  way  from  this  waterfall  was  a  fountain,  a  remnant  of 
a  classic  and  golden  age.  Never  did  Naiad  gaze  on  a  more 
glassy  mirror,  or  dwell  in  a  more  divine  retreat.  Through  a 
crevice  in  an  overhanging  mound  of  the  emerald  earth,  the 
father  stream  of  the  fountain  crept  out,  born,  like  Love,  among 
flowers,  and  in  the  most  sunny  smiles ;  it  then  fell,  broadening 


322  DEVEREUX. 

and  glowing,  into  a  marble  basin,  at  whose  bottom,  in  the 
shining  noon,  you  might  see  a  soil  which  mocked  the  very  hues 
of  gold,  and  the  water  insects,  in  their  quaint  shapes,  and 
unknown  sports,  grouping  or  gliding  in  the  midmost  wave.  A 
small  temple,  of  the  lightest  architecture,  stood  before  the 
fountain  ;  and,  in  a  niche  therein,  a  mutilated  statue — possibly 
of  the  Spirit  of  the  Place.  By  this  fountain,  my  evening  walk 
would  linger  till  the  short  twilight  melted  away,  and  the  silver 
wave  trembled  in  the  light  of  the  western  star.  Oh  !  then,  what 
feelings  gathered  over  me  as  I  turned  slowly  homeward  ;  the 
air  still,  breathless,  shining — the  stars,  gleaming  over  the  woods 
of  the  far  Apennine — the  hills,  growing  huger  in  the  shade — 
the  small  insects  humming  on  the  wing — and,  ever  and  anon, 
the  swift  bat,  wheeling  round  and  amidst  them — the  music  of 
the  waterfall  deepening  on  the  ear ;  and  the  light  and  hour 
lending  even  a  mysterious  charm  to  the  cry  of  the  weird  owl, 
flitting  after  its  prey, — all  this  had  a  harmony  in  my  thoughts, 
and  a  food  for  the  meditations  in  which  my  days  and  nights 
were  consumed.  The  World  moulders  away  the  fabric  of  our 
early  nature,  and  Solitude  rebuilds  it  on  a  firmer  base. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Victory. 

O  EARTH  !  Reservoir  of  life,  over  whose  deep  bosom  brood 
the  wings  of  the  Universal  Spirit,  shaking  upon  thee  a  blessing 
and  a  power — a  blessing  and  power  to  produce  and  reproduce 
the  living  from  the  dead,  so  that  our  flesh  is  woven  from  the 
same  atoms  which  were  once  the  atoms  of  our  sires,  and  the 
inexhaustible  nutriment  of  Existence  is  Decay  !  O  eldest  and 
most  solemn  Earth,  blending  even  thy  loveliness  and  joy  with 
a  terror  and  an  awe  !  thy  sunshine  is  girt  with  clouds,  and  cir- 
cled with  storm  and  tempest :  thy  day  cometh  from  the  womb 
of  darkness,  and  returneth  unto  darkness,  as  man  returns  unto 
thy  bosom.  The  green  herb  that  laughs  in  the  valley,  the  water 
that  sings  merrily  along  the  wood  ;  the  many-winged  and  all- 
searching  air,  which  garners  life  as  a  harvest,  and  scatters  it  as 
a  seed  ;  all  are  pregnant  with  corruption  and  carry  the  cradled 
death  within  them,  as  an  oak  banqueteth  the  destroying  worm. 
But  who  that  looks  upon  thee,  and  loves  thee,  and  inhales  thy 
blessings,  will  ever  mingle  too  deep  amoral  witli  his  joy?  Let 
us  not  ask  whence  come  the  garlands  that  we  wreathe  around 


DEVEREUX.  323 

Our  altars,  or  shower  upon  our  feasts  :  will  they  not  bloom  as 
brightly,  and  breathe  with  as  rich  a  fragrance,  whether  they  be 
plucked  from  the  garden  or  the  grave  ?  O  Earth,  my  Mother 
Earth  !  dark  Sepulchre  that  closes  upon  all  which  the  Flesh 
bears,  but  Vestibule  of  the  vast  regions  which  the  Soul  shall 
pass,  how  leapt  my  heart  within  me  when  I  first  fathomed  thy 
real  spell ! 

Yes  !  never  shall  I  forget  the  rapture  with  which  I  hailed  the 
light  that  dawned  upon  me  at  last  !  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
suffocating — the  full — the  ecstatic  joy,  with  which  I  saw  the 
mightiest  of  all  human  hopes  accomplished  ;  arid  felt,  as  if  an 
angel  spoke,  that  there  is  a  life  beyond  the  grave  f  Tell  me 
not  of  the  pride  of  ambition — tell  me  not  of  the  triumphs  of 
science  :  never  had  ambition  so  lofty  an  end  as  the  search  after 
immortality  !  never  had  science  so  sublime  a  triumph  as  the 
conviction  that  immortality  will  be  gained !  I  had  been  at 
my  task  the  whole  night, — pale  alchemist,  seeking  from  meaner 
truths  to  extract  the  greatest  of  all !  At  ihe  first  hour  of  day, 
lo  !  the  gold  was  there  :  the  labor  for  which  I  would  have 
relinquished  life,  was  accomplished  ;  the  dove  descended  upon 
the  waters  of  my  soul.  I  fled  from  the  house.  I  was  possessed 
as  with  a  spirit.  I  ascended  a  hill,  which  looked  for  leagues 
over  the  sleeping  valley.  A  gray  mist  hung  around  me  like  a 
veil  ;  t  paused,  and  the  great  Sun  broke  slowly  forth  ;  I  gazed 
upon  its  majesty,  and  my  heart  swelled.  "  So  rises  the  soul,"  I 
said,  "from  the  vapors  of  this  dull  being  ;  but  the  soul  waneth 
riot,  neither  setteth  it,  nor  knoweth  it  any  night,  save  that  from 
which  it  dawneth  !  " — The  mists  rolled  gradually  away,  the  sun- 
shine deepened,  and  the  face  of  nature  lay  in  smiles,  yet  silently, 
before  me.  It  lay  before  me,  a  scene  that  I  had  often  witnessed, 
and  hailed,  and  worshipped  ;  but  it  was  not  the  same :  a  glory 
had  passed  Over  it  ;  it  was  steeped  in  a  beauty  and  a  holiness, 
in  which  neithier  youth,  nor  poetry,  nor  even  love,  had  ever 
robed  it  before  !  The  change  which  the  earth  had  undergone 
was  like  that  of  some  being  we  have  loved — when  dieath  is 
past,  and  from  a  riiortal  it  becomes  an  angel ! 

I  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and  was  then  as  silent  as  all  around 
me.  I  felt  as  if  henceforth  there  was  a  new  compact  between 
naturfe  and  myself.  I  felt  as  if  every  tree,  and  blade  of  grass, 
were  henceforth  to  be  eloquent  with  a  voice,  and  instinct  with 
a  spell.  .  I  ftelt  as  if  a  religion  had  entered  into  the  earth,  and 
made  oracles  of  all  that  the  earth  bears  ;  the  old  fables  of 
Dodona  were  to  become  realized,  and  the  very  leaves  to  be  hal- 
lot^^fed  by  a  sanctity,  and  to  murmur  with  a  truth.     I  wass  no 


324  DEVEREUX. 

longer  only  a  part  of  that  which  withers  and  decays  ;  I  was  no, 
longer  a  machine  of  clay,  moved  by  a  spring,  and  tobetrodderi 
into  the  mire  which  I  had  trod  ;  I  was  no  longer  tied  to  human- 
ity by  links  which  could  never  be  broken,  and  which,  if  broken, 
would  avail  me  not.  I  was  become,  as  by  a  miracle,  a  part  of 
a  vast,  though  unseen,  spirit.  It  was  not  to  the  matter,  but  to 
the  essence  of  things,  that  I  bore  kindred  and  alliance  ;  the 
stars  and  the  heavens  resumed  over  me  their  ancient  influence  ; 
and,  as  I  looked  along  the  far  hills  and  the  silent  landscape,  a 
voice  seemed  to  swell  from  the  stillness,  and  to  say,  "  I  am  the 
life  of  these  things,  a  spirit  distinct  from  the  things  themselves, 
it  is  to  me  that  you  belong  forever  and  forever ;  separate, 
but  equally  indissoluble  ;  apart,  but  equally  eternal  !  " 

I  spent  the  day  upon  the  hills.  It  was  evening  when  I  re- 
turned. I  lingered  by  the  old  fountain,  and  saw  the  stars  rise, 
and  tremble,  one  by  one,  upon  the  wave.  The  hour  was  that 
which  Isora  had  loved  the  best,  and  that  which  the  love  of  her 
hiad  consecrated  the  most  to  me.  And  never,  oh,  never  did  it 
sink  into  my  heart  with  a  deeper  sweetness,  or  a  more  soothing 
balm.  I  had  once  more  knit  my  soul  to  Isora's  :  I  could  once 
more  look  from  the  toiling  and  the  dim  earth,  and  forget  that 
Isora  had  left  me,  in  dreaming  of  our  reunion.  Blame  me  not, 
you  who  indulge  in  a  religious  hope  more  severe  and  more 
sublime — you  who  miss  no  footsteps  from  the  earth,  nor  pine 
for  a  voice  that  your  human  wanderings  can  hear  no  more — 
blame  me  not,  you  whose  pulses  beat  not  for  the  wild  love  of 
the  created,  but  whose  spirit  languishes  only  for  a  nearer  com- 
mune with  the  Creator^ — blame  me  not  too  harshly  for  my  mor- 
tal wishes,  nor  think  that  my  faith  was  the  less  sincere  because 
it  was  tinted  in  the  most  unchanging  dyes  of  the  human  heart, 
and  indissolubly  woven  with  the  memory  of  the  dead  !  Often 
from  our  weaknesses  our  strongest  principles  of  conduct  are 
born  ;  and  from  the  acorn,  which  a  breeze  has  wafted,  springs 
the  oak  which  defies  the  storm. 

The  first  intoxication  and  rapture  consequent  upon  the  re- 
ward of  my  labor  passed  away  ;  but,  unlike  other  excitement, 
it  was  followed  not  by  languor,  or  a  sated  and  torpid  calm  ;  a 
soothing  and  delicious  sensation  possessed  me — my  turbulent 
senses  slept ;  and  Memory,  recalling  the  world,  rejoice^  a^t  the 
retreat  which  Hope  had  acquired,  ...,.-'     .  • 

I  now  surrendered  myself  to  a  nobler  philosophy  tTianiji^ 
crowds  and  cities  I  hadhitherto  known.  I  no  longer  satirized-r, 
I  inquired  ;  I  no  longer  derided — I  examined.  I  looked  from 
the  natural  proofs  of  immortality  to  the  written  promise  of  our 


DEVEREUX.  325 


Father — I  sought  not  to  baffle  men,  but  to  worship  Truth — I 
applied  myself  more  to  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil— I 
bowed  my  soul  before  the  loveliness  of  Virtue  ;  and  though 
scenes  of  wrath  and  passion  yet  lowered  in  the  future,  and  I 
was  again  speedily  called  forth — to  act — to  madden — to  con- 
tend— perchance  to  sin — the  Image  is  still  unbroken,  and  the 
Votary  has  still  an  offering  for  its  Altar ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Hermit  of  the  Well. 

The  thorough  and  deep  investigation  of  those  principles 
from  which  we  learn  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  the  nature 
of  its  proper  ends,  leads  the  mind  through  such  a  course  of 
reflection  and  of  study — it  is  attended  with  so  many  exalting, 
purifying,  and,  if  I  may  so  say,  etherealizing  thoughts,  that  I  do 
believe  no  man  has  ever  pursued  it,  and  not  gone  back  to  the 
world  a  better  and  a  nobler  man  than  he  was  before.  Nay, 
so  deeply  must  these  elevating  and  refining  studies  be  conned, 
so  largely  and  sensibly  must  they  enter  the  intellectual  system, 
that  I  firmly  think  that  even  a  sensualist  who  has  only  consid- 
ered the  subject  with  a  view  to  convince  himself  that  he  is 
clay,  and  has  therefore  an  excuse  to  the  curious  conscience  for 
his  grosser  desires  ;  nay,  should  he  come  to  his  wished  for,  yet 
desolate  confusion,  from  which  the  abhorrent  nature  shrinks 
and  recoils,  I  do  nevertheless  firmly  think,  should  the  study 
have  been  long  and  deep,  that  he  would  wonder  to  find  his  de- 
sires had  lost  their  poignancy,  and  his  objects  their  charm. 
He  would  descend  from  the  Alp  he  had  climbed  to  the  low 
level  on  which  he  formerly  deemed  it  a  bliss  to  dwell,  with  the 
feeling  of  one  who,  having  long  drawn  in  high  places  an  empy- 
real air,  has  become  unable  to  inhale  the  smoke  and  the  thick 
vapor  he  inhaled  of  yore.  His  soul  once  aroused  would  stir 
within  him,  though  he  felt  it  not,  and  though  he  grew  not  a 
believer,  he  would  cease  to  be  only  the  voluptuary. 

I  meant  at  one  time  to  have  here  stated  the  arguments  which 
had  perplexed  me  on  one  side,  and  those  which  afterwards 
convinced  me  on  the  other.  I  do  not  do  so  for  many  reasons, 
one  of  which  will  suffice,  viz.,  the  evident  and  palpable  circum- 
stance that  a  dissertation  of  that  nature  would,  in  a  biography 
like  the  present,  be  utterly  out  of  place  and  season.  Perhaps^ 
however,  at  a  later  period  of  life,  I  may  collect  my  own  opin-Sj 


326  DEVEREUX. 

ions  on  the  subject  into  a  separate  \vork,  and  bequeath  that 
work  to  future  generations,  upon  the  sameconditions  as  the 
present  memoir. 

One  day  I  was  favored  by  a  visit  from  one  of  the  mdnks'd^ 
the  neighboring  abbey.  After  some  general  conversation  he 
asked  me  if  I  had  yet  encountered  the  Hermit  of  the  Well! 
"No,"  said  I,  and  I  was  going  to  add,  that  1  had  not  eveh 
heard  of  him,  "but  I  now  remember  that  the  good  people  of 
the  house  have  more  than  once  spoken  to  me  of  him  as  a  rigid 
and  self-mortifying  recluse." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  holy  friar;  "Heaven  forbid  that  I  should 
say  aught  against  the  practice  of  the  saints  and  pious  men  to 
deny  unto  themselves  the  lusts  of  the  flesh,  but  such  penances 
tnay  be  carried  too  far.  However,  it  is  an  excellent  custom, 
and  the  Hermit  of  the  Well  is  an  excellent  creature.  Santa 
Maria  !  what  delicious  stuflf  is  that  Hungary  wine  your  schol- 
arship was  pleased  to  bestow  upon  our  father  Abbot.  He  suf- 
fered me  to  taste  it  the  eve  before  last.  I  had  been  suffering 
with  a  pain  in  the  reins,  and  the  wine  acted  powerfully  upon 
me  as  an  efficacious  and  inestimable  medicine.  Do  you  find, 
ray  son,  that  it  bore  the  journey  to  your  lodging  here,  as  well 
as  to  the  convent  cellars  ?" 

"Why,  really,  my  father,  I  have  none  of  it  here  ;  but  the 
people  of  the  house  have  a  few  flasks  of  a  better  wine  than  ordi- 
nary, if  you  will  deign  to  taste  it  in  lieu  of  the  Hungary  wine." 

"Oh — oh  !  "said  the  monk,  groaning,  "  my  reins  trouble  me 
much — perhaps  the  wine  may  comfprt  mie  !  "  and  jhe  wine  was 

brought.         'v':''.'.-!  ;..'      ':.  /  '  ' ."'  J ; 

"It  i^  tidt  6f  sB'rafe'  a  fiiVor  ^i  that  whicTfiyciti' "sent  to  our 
reverend  father,"  said  the  monk,  wiping  his  mouth  with  his  long 
sleeve.  "  Hungary  must  be  a  charming  place — is  it  far  from 
hence  ?— It  joins  the  heretical — I  pray  your  pardon — it  joins 
the  continent  of  England,  I  believe  ? " 

"  Not  exactly,  father  ;  but  whatever  its  topography,  it  is  a 
rare  country^for  those  who  like  it  !  But  tell  me  of  this  Her- 
mit of  the  Well.  How  long  has  he  lived  here — and  how  came 
hfi  by  his  appellatioti  /  Of  what  country  is  he — and  of  what 
birth^** 

"  You  ask  me  too  tnany  questions  at  once,  my  son.  The 
country  of  the  holy  man  is  a  mystery  to  us  all.  He  speaks  the 
Tuscan  dialect  well,  but  with  a  foreign  accent.  Nevertheless, 
though  the  wine  is  not  of  Hungary,  it  has  a  pleasant  flavor.  I 
wonder  how  the  rogues  kept  it  so  snugly  from  the  knowledge 
»nd  comfort  of  their  pious  brethren  of  the  monastery." 


CEVEREUX.  3^7 

.  "And  how  long  has  the  hermit  lived  in  your  vicinity  ? " 
;  "  Nearly  eight  years,  my  son.  It  was  one  winter's  evening 
that  he  came  to  our  convent  in  the  dress  of  a  worldly  traveller, 
to  seek  our  hospitality,  and  a  shelter  for  the  night,  which  was 
inclement  and  stormy.  He  stayed  with  us  a  few  days,  and  held 
some  conversation  with  our  father  Abbot  ;  and  one  morning, 
after  roaming  in  the  neighborhood  to  look  at  the  old  stones  and 
ruins,  which  is  the  custom  of  travellers,  he  returned,  put  into 
our  box  some  certain  alms,  and  two  days  afterwards  he  ap- 
peared in  the  place  he  now  inhabits,  and  in  the  dress  he 
assumes," 

"And  of  what  nature,  my  father,  is  the  place,  and  of  what 
fashion  the  dress?"  -.     ■ 

"  Holy  St.  Francis  !  "  exclaimed  the  father,  with  a  surprise 
so  great  that  I  thought  at  first  it  related  to  the  wine,  "Holy 
St.  Francis — have  you  not  seen  the  well  yet  ? " 

"  No,  father,  unless  you  speak  of  the  fountain  about  a  mile 
and  a  quarter  distant." 

."  Tush — tush  ! "  said  the  good  man,  "  what  ignoramuses  you 
travellers  are  ;  you  affect  to  know  what  kind  of  slippers  Pres- 
ter  John  wears  and  to  have  been  admitted  to  the  bed-chamber 
of  the  Pagoda  of  China  ;  and  yet  when  one  comes  to  sound 
you,  you  are  as  ignorant  of  everything  a  man  of  real  learning 
knows  as  an  Englishman  is  of  his  missal.  Why,  I  thought  that 
every  fool  in  every  country  had  heard  of  the  Holy  Well  of  St. 
Francis,  situated  exactly  two  miles  from  our  famous  convent, 
and  that  every  fool  in  the  neighborhood  had  seen  it." 

"  What  the  fools,  my  father,  whether  in  this  neighborhood  or 
any  other  may  have  heard  or  seen,  I,  who  profess  not  ostensi- 
bly to  belong  to  so  goodly  an  order,  cannot  pretend  to  know  ; 
but  be  assured  that  the  Holy  Well  of  St.  Francis  is  as  unfa- 
miliar to  me  as  the  Pagoda  of  China — Heaven  bless,  him— is 
to  you." 

Upon  this  the  learned  monk,  after  expressing  due  astonish- 
ment, offered  to  show  it  to  me  ;  and  as  I  thought  I  might  by 
acquiescence  get  rid  of  him  sooner,  and  as,  moreover,  I  wished 
to  see  the  Abbot,  to  whom  some  books  fox  me  had  been  lately 
sent,  I  agreed  to  the  offer. 

The  well,  said  the  monk,  lay  not  a  mile  out  of  the  custom- 
ary way  to  the  monastery  ;  and  after  we  had  finished  the  flask 
of  wine,  we  sallied  out  on  our  excursion, — the  monk  upon  a 
stately  and  strong  ass — myself  on  foot. 

The  Abbot,  on  granting  me  his  friendship  and  protection, 
had  observed  that  I  was  not  the  only  stranger  and  recluse  on 


3^8  DeVereuX. 

whom  his  favor  was  bestowed.  He  had  then  mentioned  the 
Hermit  of  the  Well  as  an  eccentric  and  strange  being,  who  lived 
an  existence  of  rigid  penance,  harmless  to  others,  painful  only 
to  himself.  This  story  had  been  confirmed  in  the  few  conver- 
sations I  had  ever  interchanged  with  my  host  and  hostess,  who 
seemed  to  take  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  talking  of  the  Solitary  ; 
and  from  them  I  heard  also  many  anecdotes  of  his  charity  to- 
wards the  poor,  and  his  attention  to  the  sick.  All  these  circum- 
stances came  into  my  mind  as  the  good  monk  indulged  his 
loquacity  upon  the  subject,  and  my  curiosity  became,  at  last, 
somewhat  excited  respecting  my  fellow  recluse. 

I  now  learned  from  the  monk  that  the  post  of  Hermit  of  the 
Well  was  an  office  of  which  the  present  anchorite  was  by  no 
means  the  first  tenant.  The  well  was  one  of  those  springs  fre- 
quent in  Catholic  countries,  to  which  a  legend  and  a  sanctity  are 
attached  ;  and  twice  a  year,  once  in  the  spring,  once  in  the 
autumn,  the  neighboring  peasants  flocked  thither,  on  a  stated  day, 
to  drink,  and  lose  their  diseases.  As  the  spring  most  probably 
did  possess  some  medicinal  qualities,  a  few  extraordinary  cures 
had  occurred  ;  especially  among  those  pious  persons  who  took 
not  biennial,  but  constant  draughts  ;  and  to  doubt  its  holiness 
was  downright  heresy. 

Now,  hard  by  this  well  was  a  cavern,  which,  whether  first 
formed  by  nature  or  art,  was  now,  upon  the  whole,  constructed 
into  a  very  commodious  abode  ;  and  here,  for  years  beyond  the 
memory  of  man,  some  solitary  person  had  fixed  his  abode  to 
dispense  and  to  bless  the  water,  to  be  exceedingly  well  fed  by 
the  surrounding  peasants,  to  wear  a  long  gown  of  serge  or  sack- 
cloth, and  to  be  called  the  Hermit  of  the  Well.  So  fast  as  each 
succeeding  anchorite  died  there  were  enough  candidates  eager 
to  supply  his  place  ;  for  it  was  no  bad  mdtier  to  some  penniless 
impostor  to  become  the  quack  and  patentee  of  a  holy  specific. 
The  choice  of  these  candidates  always  rested  with  the  superior 
of  the  neighboring  monastery  ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  he 
made  an  indifferently  good  percentage  upon  the  annual  advan- 
tages of  his  protection  and  choice. 

At  the  time  the  traveller  appeared,  the  former  hermit  had 
just  departed  this  life,  and  it  was,  therefore,  to  the  vacancy  thus 
occasioned,  that  he  had  procured  himself  to  be  elected.  The 
incumbent  appeared  quite  of  a  different  mould  from  the  former 
occupants  of  the  hermitage.  He  accepted,  it  is  true,  the  gifts 
laid  at  regular  periods  upon  a  huge  stone  between  the  hermitage 
and  the  well,  but  he  distributed  among  the  donors  alms  far  more 
profitable  than  their  gifts.     He  entered  no  village,  borne  upon 


DfiVEREUX.  329 

an  ass  laden  with  twin  sacks,  for  the  purpose  of  sanctimoniously 
robbing  the  inhabitants  ;  no  profane  songs  were  ever  heard  re- 
sounding from  his  dwelling  by  the  peasant  incautiously  linger- 
ing at  a  late  hour  too  near  its  vicinity  ;  my  guide,  the  monk, 
complained  bitterly  of  his  unsociability,  and  no  scandalous  legend 
of  nymph-like  comforters  and  damsel  visitants  haunting  the 
sacred  dwelling,  escaped  from  the  garrulous  friar's  well-loaded 
budget. 

"Does  he  study  much?"  said  I  with  the  interest  of  a 
student. 

"  1  fear  me  not,"  quoth  the  monk.  "  I  have  had  occasion  often 
to  enter  his  abode,  and  I  have  examined  all  things  with  a  close 
eye; — for,  praised  be  the  Lord,  I  have  faculties  more  than  ordi- 
narily clear  and  observant — but  I  have  seen  no  books  therein, 
excepting  a  missal,  and  a  Latin  or  Greek  Testament,  I  know 
not  well  which  ;  nay,  so  incurious  or  unlearned  is  the  holy  man 
that  he  rejected  even  a  loan  of  the 'Life  of  St.  Francis,'  not- 
withstanding it  has  many  and  rare  pictures,  to  say  nothing  of 
its  most  interesting  and  amazing  tales." 

More  might  the  monk  have  said,  had  we  not  now  suddenly 
entered  a  thick  and  sombre  wood.  A  path  cut  through  it  was 
narrow,  and  only  capable  of  admitting  a  traveller  on  foot  or 
horseback;  and  the  boughs  overhead  were  so  darkly  interlaced 
that  the  light  scarcely,  and  only  in  broken  and  erratic  glimmer- 
ings, pierced  the  canopy. 

"  It  is  the  wood,"  said  the  monk,  crossing  himself,  "wherein 
the  wonderful  adventure  happened  to  St.  Francis,  which  I  will 
one  day  narrate  at  length  to  you." 

"  And  we  are  near  the  well,  I  suppose  ? "  said  I. 

"  It  is  close  at  hand,"  answered  the  monk. 

In  effect  we  had  not  proceeded  above  fifty  yards  before  the 
path  brought  us  into  a  circular  space  of  green  sod,  in  the  midst 
of  which  was  a  small,  square,  stone  building,  of  plain,  but  not 
inelegant,  shape,  and  evidently  of  great  antiquity.  At  one  side 
of  this  building  was  an  iron  handle,  for  the  purpose  of  raising 
water,  that  cast  itself  into  a  stone  basin,  to  which  was  affixed, 
by  a  strong  chain,  an  iron  cup.  An  inscription,  in  monkish 
Latin,  was  engraved  over  the  basin,  requesting  the  traveller  to 
pause  and  drink,  and  importing  that  what  that  water  was  to 
the  body,  faith  was  to  the  soul  ;  near  the  cistern  was  a  rude 
seat,  formed  by  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  The  door  of  the 
well-house  was  of  iron,  and  secured  by  a  chain  and  lock  ;  per- 
haps the  pump  was  so  contrived  that  only  a  certain  quantum 
of  the  sanctifiel  beverage  could  be  driwn  up  at  a  time,  without 


336  DeVereUX. 

application  to  some  mechanism  within  :  and  wayfarers  were 
thereby  prevented  from  helping  themselves  ad  libitum^  and 
thus  depriving  the  anchorite  of  the  profit  and  the  necessity  of 
his  office. 

It  was  certainly  a  strange,  lonely,  and  wild  place  ;  and  the 
green  sward,  round  as  a  fairy  ring,  in  the  midst  of  trees,  which 
black,  close,  and  huge,  circled  it  like  a  \yall  :  and  the  solitary 
gray  building  in  the  centre,  gaunt  and  cold,  and  startling  the 
eye  with  the  abruptness  of  its  appearance,  and  the  strong  con- 
trast made  by  its  wan  hues  to  the  dark  verdure  and  forest  gloom 
around  it, 

I  took  a  draught  of  the  water,  which  was  very  cold  and  taste- 
less, and  reminded  the  monk  of  his  disorder  in  the  reins,  to 
which  a  similar  potation  might  possibly  be  efficacious.  To  this 
suggestion  the  monk  answered  that  he  would  certainly  try  the 
water  some  other  time  ;  but  that  at  present  the  wine  he  had 
drunk  might  pullute  its  divine  properties.  So  saying,  he 
turned  off  the  conversation  by  inviting  me  to  follow  him  to  the 
hermitage. 

In  our  way.  thither  he  pointed  out  a  large  fragment  of  stone, 
and  observed  that  the  water  would  do  me  evil  instead  of  good 
if  I  forgot  to  remunerate  its  guardian.  I  took  the  hint  and 
laid  a  piece  of  silver  on  the  fragment. 

A  short  journey  through  the  wood  brought  us  to  the  foot  of 
a  hill  covered  with  trees,  and  having  at  its  base  a  strong  stone 
door,  the  entrance  to  the  excavated  home  of  the  anchorite.  'J'he 
monk  gently  tapped  thrice  at  this  door,  but  no  answer  came. 
"  The  holy  man  is  from  home,"  said  he,  "  let  us  return." 

We  did  so  ;  and  the  monk,  keeping  behind  me,  managed,  as 
he  thought  unseen,  to  leave  the  stone  as  naked  as  we  had  found 
it  !  We  now  struck  through  another  path  in  the  wood,  and  jirere 
soon  at  the  convent.  I  did  not  lose  the  opportunity  to  ques- 
tion the  Abbot  respecting  his  tenant :  I  learnt  from  him  little 
more  than  the  particulars  I  have  already  narrated,  save  that,  in 
concluding  his  details,  he  said  : 

"  I  can  scarcely  doubt  but  that  the  hermit  is,  like  yourself, 
a  person  of  rank  ;  his  bearing  and  his  mien  appear  to  denote 
it.  He  has  given,  and  gives  yearly,  large  sums  to  the  uses  of 
the  convent :  and,  though  he  takes  the  customary  gifts  of  the 
pious  villagers,  it  is  only  by  my  advice,  and  for  the  purpose  of 
avoiding  suspicion.  Should  lie  be  considered  rich,  it  might 
attract  cupidity  ;  and  there  are  enough  bold  hands  and  sharp 
knives  in  the  country  to  place  the  wealthy  and  the  unguarded 
in  some  peril.     Whoever  he  may  be, — for  he  has  not  confided 


I>EVEREUX.  J3I 

His 'secret  to  me — I  do  not  doubt  but  that  he  is  doing  penance 
for  some  great  crime  ;  and,  whatever  be  the  crime,  I  suspect 
that  its  earthly  punishment  is  nearly  over.  The  hermit  is 
naturally  of  a  delicate  and  weak  frame,  and  year  after  year  I 
have  marked  him  sensibly  wearing  away  ;  so  that  when  I  last 
saw  him,  three  days  since,  I  was  shocked  at  the  visible  ravages 
which  disease  or  penance  had  engraven  upon  him.  If  ever 
Death  wrote  legibly,  its  characters  are  in  that  brow  and  cheek." 

"  Poor  man  !  Know  you  not  even  whom  to  apprise  of  his 
decease  when  he  is  no  more  ? " 

"  I  do  not  yet  ;  but  the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  told  me  that 
he  found  himself  drawing  near  his  end,  and  that  he  should  not 
quit  life  without  troubling  me  with  one  request." 

After  this  the  Abbot  spoke  of  other  matters,  and  my  visit 
expired. 

Interested  in  the  recluse  more  deeply  than  I  acknowledged 
to  myself,  I  found  my  steps  insensibly  leading  me  homeward 
l>ythe  more  circuitous  road  which  wound  first  by  the  holy  well. 
I  did  not  resist  the  impulse,  but  walked  musingly  onward  by 
the  waning  twilight,  for  the  day  was  now  over,  until  I  came  to 
the  well.  As  I  emerged  from  the  wood,  I  started  involuntarily 
and  drew  back.  A  figure,  robed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  long 
sable  robe,  sate  upon  the  rude  seat  beside  the  well ;  sate  so 
still,  so  motionless,  that  coming  upon  it  abruptly  in  that  strange 
place,  the  heart  beat  irregularly  at  an  apparition  so  dark  in 
hue,  and  so  death-like  in  its  repose.  The  hat,  large,  broad, 
and  overhanging,  which  suited  the  costume,  was  lying  on  the 
ground  :  and  the  face,  which  inclined  upward,  seemed  to  woo 
the  gentle  air  of  the  quiet  and  soft  skies.  I  approached  a  few 
step>s,  and  saw  the  profile  of  the  countenance  more  distinctly 
than  I  had  done  before.  It  was  of  a  marble  a\  hiteness  ;  the 
features,  though  sharpened  and  attenuated  by  disease,  were  of 
surpassing  beauty  ;  the  hair  was  exceedingly,  almost  effemi- 
nately, long,  and  hung  in  waves  of  perfect  jet  on  either  side  ; 
the  mouth  was  closed  firmly,  and  deep  lines  or  rather  furrows, 
were  traced  from  its  corners  to  either  nostril.  The  stranger's 
beard,  of  a  hue  equally  black  as  the  hair,  was  dishevelled  and 
neglected,  but  not  very  long;  and  one  hand,  which  lay  on  the 
sable  robe,  was  so  thin  and  wan  you  might  have  deemed  the 
very  starlight  could  have  shotie  through  it.  I  did  not  doubt 
that  it  was  the  recluse  \^hom  I  saw  ;  I  dretv  near  and  accosted 
him. 

"Your  blessing,  holy  father,  and  your  permission  to  taste  the 
healing  of  your  well," 


332 


DEVEREUX. 


Sudden  as  was  my  appearance,  and  abrupt  my  voice,  the 
hermit  evinced  by  no  startled  gesture  a  token  of  surprise.  He 
turned  very  slowly  round,  cast  upon  me  an  indifferent  glance, 
and  said,  in  a  sweet  and  very  low  tone  : 

"You  liave  my  blessing,  stranger;  there  is  water  in  the 
cistern — drink,  and  be  healed." 

I  dipped  the  bowl  in  the  basin,  and  took  sparingly  of  the 
water.  In  the  accent  and  tone  of  the  stranger,  my  ear,  accus- 
tomed to  the  dialects  of  many  nations,  recognized  something 
English  ;  I  resolved,  therefore,  to  address  him  in  my  native 
tongue,  rather  than  the  indifferent  Italian  in  which  I  had  first 
accosted  him  : 

"  The  water  is  fresh  and  cooling  ;  would,  holy  father,  that  it 
could  penetrate  to  a  deeper  malady  than  the  ills  of  flesh  :  that 
it  could  assuage  the  fever  of  the  heart,  or  lave  from  the  wearied 
mind  the  dust  which  it  gathers  from  the  mire  and  travail  of  the 
world." 

Now  the  hermit  testified  surprise ;  but  it  was  slight  and 
momentary.  He  gazed  upon  me  more  attentively  than  he  had 
done  before,  and  said,  after  a  pause  : 

"  My  countryman  !  and  in  this  spot !  It  is  not  often  that  the 
English  penetrate  into  places  where  no  ostentatious  celebrity 
dwells  to  sate  curiosity  and  flatter  pride.  My  countryman  ! — 
it  is  well,  and  perhaps  fortunate.  Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  second 
pause,  "yes  ;  it  were  indeed  a  boon,  had  the  earth  a  fountain 
for  the  wounds  which  fester,  and  the  disease  which  consumes 
the  heart." 

"  The  earth  has  oblivion,  father,  if  not  a  cure." 

"  It  is  false  ! "  cried  the  hermit  passionately,  and  starting 
wildly  from  his  seat;  "the  earth  has  no  oblivion.  The  grave — 
is  that  forgetfulness?  No,  no — there  is  no  grave  for  the  soul ! 
The  deeds  pass — the  flesh  corrupts — but  the  memory  passes 
not,  and  withers  not.  From  age  to  age,  from  world  to  world, 
through  eternity,  throughout  creation,  it  is  perpetuated — an 
immortality — a  curse — a  hell !" 

Surprised  by  the  vehemence  of  the  hermit,  I  was  still  more 
startled  by  the  agonizing  and  ghastly  expression  of  his  face. 

"  My  father,"  said  I,  "pardon  me,  if  I  have  pressed  upon  a 
sore.  I  also  have  that  within,  which,  did  a  stranger  touch  it, 
would  thrill  my  whole  frame  with  torture,  and  I  would  fain  ask 
from  your  holy  soothing,  and  pious  comfort,  something  of 
alleviation  or  of  fortitude." 

The  hermit  drew  near  to  me  ;  he  laid  his  thin  hand  upon  my 
arm,  and  looked  long  and  wistfully  in  my  face.     It  was  then 


DEVEREUX.  $;^^ 

that  a  suspicion  crept  through  me  which  after-observation 
proved  to  be  true,  that  the  wandering  of  those  dark  eyes, 
and  the  meaning  of  that  blanched  brow  were  tinctured  with 
insanity, 

"Brother,  and  fellow-man,"  said  he  mournfully,  "hast  thou 
in  trutli  suffered  ?  and  dost  thou  still  smart  at  the  remembrance  ? 
We  are  friends  then.  If  thou  hast  suffered  as  much  as  I  have, 
I  will  fall  down  and  do  homage  to  thee  as  a  superior ;  for  pain 
has  its  ranks,  and  I  think,  at  times,  that  none  ever  climbed  tiie 
height  that  I  have  done.  Yet  you  look  not  like  one  who  has 
had  nights  of  delirium,  and  days  in  which  the  heart  lay  in  the 
breast,  as  a  corpse  endowed  with  consciousness  might  lie  in  the 
grave,  feeling  the  worm  gnaw  it,  and  the  decay  corrupt,  and  yet 
incapable  of  resistance  or  of  motion.  Your  cheek  is  thin,  but 
firm  ;  your  eye  is  haughty  and  bright  ;  you  have  the  air  of  one 
who  has  lived  with  men,  and  struggled  and  not  been  vanquished 
in  the  struggle.  Suffered !  No,  man,  no — jou  have  not 
suffered  !  " 

"  My  father,  it  is  not  in  the  countenance  that  Fate  graves 
her  records.  I  have  it  is  true,  contended  with  my  fellows  ; 
and  if  wealth  and  honor  be  the  premium,  not  in  vain  :  but  I 
have  not  contended  against  Sorrow  with  a  like  success  ;  and  I 
stand  before  you,  a  being  who,  if  passion  be  a  tormentor,  and 
the  death  of  the  loved  a  loss,  has  borne  that  which  the  most 
wretched  will  not  envy." 

Again  a  fearful  change  came  over  the  face  of  the  recluse — 
he  grasped  my  arm  more  vehemently,  "You  speak  my  own  sor- 
rows— you  utter  my  own  curse — I  will  see  you  again — you  may 
do  my  last  will  better  than  yon  monks.  Can  I  trust  you?  If 
you  have  in  truth  known  misfortune,  I  will ! — I  will — yea,  even 
to  the  outpouring — Merciful,  merciful  God,  what  would  I  say — 
what  would  I  reveal !  " 

Suddenly  changing  his  voice,  he  released  me,  and  said,  touch- 
ing his  forehead  with  a  meaning  gesture,  and  a  quiet  smile, 
"You  say  you  are  my  rival  in  pain  ?  Have  you  ever  known  the 
rage  and  despair  of  the  heart  mount  Agre  ?  It  is  a  wonderful 
thing  to  be  calm  as  I  am  now,  when  that  rising  makes  itself  felt 
in  fire  and  torture  !  " 

"  If  there  be  aught,  father,  which  a  man  who  cares  not  what 
country  he  visit,  or  what  deed — so  it  be  not  of  guilt  or  shame — 
he  commit,  can  do  toward  the  quiet  of  your  soul,  say  it,  and  I 
will  attempt  your  will." 

"  You  are  kind,  my  son,"  said  the  hermit,  resuming  his  first 
melancholy  and  dignified  composure  of  mien  and  bearing,  "and 


334  DEVEREUX. 

there  is  something  in  your  voice,  which  seems  to  me  like  a  tone 
that  I  have  heard  in  youth.     Do  you  live  near  at  hand?" 

"  In  the  valley,  about  four  miles  hence  ;  I  am,  like  yourself 
a  fugitive  from  the  world." 

"Come  to  me  then  to-morrow  at  eve  ;  to-morrow  ! — No,  that 
is  a  holy  eve,  and  I  must  keep  it  with  scourge  and  prayer.  The 
next  at  sunset.  I  shall  be  collected  then,  and  I  would  faitt' 
know  more  of  you  than  I  do.     Bless  you  my  son— adieu."         "■ 

"  Yet  stay,  father,  may  I  not  conduct  you  home  ?" 

"  No — my  limbs  are  weak,  but  I  trust  they  can  carry  me  to 
that  home,  till  I  be  borne  thence  to  my  last.  Farewell !  the 
night  grows,  and  man  fills  even  these  shades  with  peril.  The 
eve  after  next,  at  sunset,  we  meet  again." 

So  saying,  the  hermit  waved  his  hand,  and  I  stood  apart, 
watching  his  receding  figure,  until  the  trees  cloaked  the  last 
glimpse  from  my  view.  I  then  turned  homeward,  and  reached 
my  cottage  in  safety,  despite  of  the  hermit's  caution.  But  1 
did  not  retire  to  rest :  a  powerful  foreboding,  rather  than  sus- 
picion, that,  in  the  worn  and  wasted  form  which  I  had  beheld, 
there  was  identity  with  one  whom  I  had  not  met  for  years,  and 
whom  I  had  believed  to  be  no  more,  thrillingly  possessed  me. 

"Can — can  it  be  ?"  thought  I  "Can  grief  have  a  desolation, 
or  remembrance  an  agony,  sufificient  to  create  so  awful  a  change? 
And  of  all  human  beings,  for  that  one  to  be  singled  out ;  that 
one  in  whom  passion  and  sin  were,  if  they  existed,  nipped  in 
their  earliest  germ,  and  seemingly  rendered  barren  of  all  fruit  I 
If  too,  almost  against  the  evidence  of  sight  and  sense,  an  innate 
feeling  has  marked  in  that  most  altered  form  the  traces  of  a 
dread  recognition,  would  not  his  memory  have  been  yet  more 
vigilant  than  mine?  Am  I  so  clianged  that  he  should  have 
looked  me  in  the  face  so  wistfully,  and  found  there  nought 
save  the  lineaments  of  a  stranger?"  And,  actuated  by  this 
thought,  I  placed  the  light  by  the  small  mirror  which  graced 
my  chamber.  I  recalled,  as  I  gazed,  my  features  as  tliey  had 
been  in  earliest  youth.  "No,"  I  said,  with  a  sigh,  "there  is 
nothing  here. that  he  should  recognize." 

And  I  said  aright ;  my  features,  originally  small  and  delicate, 
had  grown  enlarged  and  prominent.  The  long  locks  of  my 
youth  (for  only  upon  state  occasions  did  my  early  vanity  con- 
sent to  the  fasnion  Of  the  day)  were  succeeded  by  curls,  short 
and  crisped  ;  the  hues,  alternately  pale  and  hectic,  that  the 
dreams  of  romance  had  once  spread  over  my  cheek,  had  settled 
into  the  unchanging  bronze  of  manhood  ;  the  smooth  lip  and 
unshaven  chin  were  clothed  with  a  thick  hair  ;    the  once  un* 


furrowed  brow  was  habitually  knit  in  thought ;  and  the  ardent, 
restless  expression  that  boyhood  wore  had  yielded  to  the  quiet, 
unmoved  countenance  of  one  in  whom  long  custom  has  sub- 
dued all  outward  sign  of  emotion,  and  many  and  various  events 
left  no  prevalent  token  of  the  mind,  save  that  of  an  habitual, 
but  latent  resolution.  My  frame,  too,  once  scarcely  less  slight 
than  a  woman's,  was  become  knit  and  muscular,  and  nothing 
was  left  by  which,  in  the  foreign  air,  the  quiet  brow,  and  the 
athletic  form,  my  very  mother  could  have  recognized  the  slen- 
der figure  and  changeful  face  of  the  boy  she  had  last  beheld. 
The  very  sarcasm  of  the  eye  was  gone  :  and  I  had  learnt  the 
world's  easy  lesson — the  dissimulation  of  composure. 

I   have  noted  one   thing  in  others,  and  it  was  particularly 
noticeable  in  me,  viz.,  that  few  who  mix  very  largely  with  men, 

.  and  with  the  courtier's  or  the  citizen's  design,  ever  retain  the 
key  and  tone  of  their  original  voice.  The  voice  of  a  young 
i»an  is  as  yet  modulated  by  nature,  and  expresses  the  passion 
of  the  moment :  that  of  the  matured  pupil  of  art  expresses 
rather  the  customary  occupation  of  his  life  :  whether  he  aims 
at  persuading,  convincing,  or  commanding  others,  his  voice 
irrevocably  settles  into  the  key  he  ordinarily  employs  ;  and,  as 
persuasion  is  the  means  men  chiefly  employ  in  their  commerce 
with  each  other,  especially  in  the  regions  of  a  court,  so  a  tone 
of  artificial  blandness  and  subdued  insinuation  is  chiefly  that 
in  which  the  accents  of  worldly  men  are  clothed  ;  the  artificial 

.intonation,  long  continued,  grows  into  nature,  and  the  very 
pith  and  basis  of  the  original  sound   fritter  themselves  away. 

:The  change  was  great  in  me,  for,  at  that  time  which  I  brought 

-  in  comparison  with  the  present,  my  age  was  one  in  which  the 
voice  is  yet  confused  and  undecided,  struggling  between  the 
accents  of  youth  and  boyhood  ;  so  that  even  this  most  power- 
ful and  unchanging  of  all  claims  upon  the  memory  was  in  a 
great  measure  absent  in  me  ;  and  nothing  but  an  occasional 
and  rare  tone  could  have  produced  even  that  faint  and  uncon- 
scious recognition  which  the  hermit  had  confessed. 

I  must  be  pardoned  these  egotisms,  which  the  nature  of  my 
story  renders  necessary. 

'-  With  what  eager  impatience  did  I  watch  the  hours  to  the 
appointed  interview  with  the  hermit  languish  themselves  away  ! 
However,  before  that  time  arrived,  and  towards  the  evening  of 
the  next  day,  I  was  surprised  by  the  rare  honor  of  a  visit  from 
Anselmo  himself.  He  came  attended  by  two  of  the  mendicant 
friars  of  his  order,  and  they  carried  between  them  a  basket  of 

.  |olerable  size,  which,  as  mine  hostess  afterwards  informed  ri^e, 


336  DEVEREUX. 

with  many  a  tear,  went  back  somewhat  heavier  than  it  came, 
from  the  load  of  certain  receptacula  of  that  rarer  wine  which 
she  had  had,  the  evening  before,  the  indiscreet  hospitality  to 
produce. 

The  Abbot  came  to  inform  me  that  the  hermit  had  been  with 
him  that  morning,  making  many  inquiries  respecting  me.  "I 
told  him,"  said  he,  **  that  I  was  acquainted  with  your  name  and 
birth,  but  that  I  was  under  a  solemn  promise  not  to  reveal  them, 
without  your  consent ;  and  I  am  now  here,  my  son,  to  learn 
from  you  whether  that  consent  may  be  obtained  ? " 

"Assuredly  not,  holy  father!"  said  I  hastily;  nor  was  I 
contented  until  I  had  obtained  a  renewal  of  his  promise  to  that 
effect.  This  seemed  to  give  the  Abbot  some  little  chagrin  : 
perhaps  the  hermit  had  offered  a  reward  for  my  discovery. 
However,  I  knew  that  Anselmo,  though  a  griping,  was  a  trust- 
worthy man,  and  I  felt  safe  in  his  renewed  promise.  I  saw 
him  depart  with  great  satisfaction,  and  gave  myself  once  more 
to  conjectures  respecting  the  strange  recluse. 

As,  the  next  evening,  I  prepared  to  depart  towards  the  her- 
mitage, I  took  peculiar  pains  to  give  my  person  a  foreign  and 
disguised  appearance,  A  loose  dress,  of  rude  and  simple  ma- 
terial, and  a  high  cap  of  fur,  were  pretty  successful  in  accom- 
plishing this  purpose.  And,  as  I  gave  the  last  look  at  the 
glass  before  I  left  the  house,  I  said,  inly,  "  If  there  be  any 
truth  in  my  wild  and  improbable  conjecture  respecting  the 
identity  of  the  anchorite,  1  think  time  and  this  dress  are  suffi- 
cient wizards  to  secure  me  from  a  chance  of  discovery.  I  will 
keep  a  guard  upon  my  words  and  tones,  until,  if  my  thought 
be  verified,  a  moment  fit  for  unmasking  myself  arrives.  But 
would  to  God  that  the  thought  be  groundless  !  In  such  cir- 
cumstances, and  after  such  an  absence,  to  meet  him!  No  ; 
and  yet — Well,  this  meeting  will  decide." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Solution  of  many  Mysteries— a  dark  View  of  the  Life  and  Nature  of 

Man. 

Powerful,  though  not  clearly  developed  in  my  own  mind, 
was  the  motive  which  made  me  so  strongly  desire  to  preserve 
the  incognito  during  my  interview  with  the  hermit.  I  have 
before  said  that  I  could  not  resist  a  vague,  but  intense  belief 
that  he  was  a  person  whom  I  had  long  believed  in  the  grave ; 


DEVEkEUX.  337 

and  t  had  more  than  once  struggled,  against  a  dark,  but  pass- 
ing, suspicion  that  that  person  was  in  some  measure — mediate- 
ly, though  not  directly — connected  with  the  mysteries  of  my 
former  life.  If  both  these  conjectures  were  true,  I  thought  it 
possible  that  the  communication  the  hermit  wished  to  make 
might  be  made  yet  more  willingly  to  me  as  a  stranger  than  if 
he  knew  who  was  in  reality  his  confidant.  And,  at  all  events, 
if  I  could  curb  the  impetuous  gushingsof  my  own  heart,  which 
yearned  for  immediate  disclosure,  I  might,  by  hint  and  prelude, 
ascertain  the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  revealing 
myself. 

I  arrived  at  the  well ;  the  hermit  was  already  at  the  place  of 
rendezvous,  seated  in  the  same  posture  in  which  I  had  before 
seen  him.     I  made  my  reverence,  and  accosted  him. 

"  I  have  not  failed  you,  father." 

"  That  is  rarely  a  true  boast  with  men,"  said  the  hermit, 
smiling  mournfully, but  without  sarcasm;  "and  were  the  prom- 
ise of  greater  avail,  it  might  not  have  been  so  rigidly  kept." 

"  The  promise,  father,  seemed  to  me  of  greater  weight  than 
you  would  intimate,"  answered  I. 

"  How  mean  you  ? "  said  the  hermit,  hastily. 

"  Why,  that  we  may  perhaps  serve  each  other  by  our  meet- 
ing :  you  father,  may  comfort  me  by  your  counsels  ;  I,  you  by 
my  readiness  to  obey  your  request." 

The  hermit  looked  at  me  for  some  moments,  and,  as  well  as 
I  could,  I  turned  away  my  face  from  his  gaze.  I  might  have 
spared  myself  the  effort.  He  seemed  to  recognize  nothing 
familiar  in  my  countenance  ;  perhaps  his  mental  malady  as- 
sisted my  own  alteration. 

"  I  have  inquired  respecting  you,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  '*  and 
I  hear  that  you  are  a  learned  and  wise  man,  who  have  seen 
much  of  the  world,  and  played  the  part  both  of  soldier  and  of 
scholar,  in  its  various  theatres  :  is  my  information  true  ?  " 

"  Not  true  with  respect  to  the  learning,  father,  but  true  with 
regard  to  the  experience.  I  have  been  a  pilgrim  in  many 
countries  of  Europe." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  hermit  eagerly.  *'  Come  with  me  to 
my  home,  and  tell  me  of  the  wonders  you  have  seen." 

I  assisted  the  hermit  to  rise,  and  he  walked  slowly  towards 
the  cavern,  leaning  upon  my  arm.  Oh,  how  that  light  touch 
thrilled  through  my  frame  !  How  I  longed  to  cry,  "  Are  you 
.  not  the  one  whom  I  have  loved,  and  mourned,  and  believed 
buried  in  the  tomb  ?  "  But  I  checked  myself.  We  moved  on 
in  silence.     The  hermit's  hand  was  on  the  door  of  the  cavern^ 


33^  DEVEREUX. 

when  he  said,  in  a  calm  tone,  but  with  evident  effort,  and  turn- 
ing his  face  from  me  while  he  spoke  : 

"  And  did  your  wanderings  ever  carry  you  into  the  farther 
regions  of  the  north  ?  Did  the  fame  of  the  great  Czar  ever 
lead  you  to  the  city  he  has  founded  ? " 

"I  am  right — I  am  right  !  "  thought  I,  as  I  answered,  "In 
truth,  holy  father,  I  spent  not  a  long  time  at  Petersburgh  ;  but 
I  am  not  a  stranger  either  to  its  wonders,  or  its  inhabitants." 

"  Possibly,  then,  you  may  have  met  with  the  English  favorite 
of  the  Czar  of  whom  I  hear  in  my  retreat  that  men  have  lately 
spoken  somewhat  largely  ?  "  The  hermit  paused  again.  We 
were  now  in  a  long,  low  passage,  almost  in  darkness.  I  scarcely 
saw  him,  yet  I  heard  a  convulsed  movement  in  his  throat,  be- 
fore he  uttered  the  remainder  of  the  sentence.  "  He  is  called 
the  Count  Devereux." 

"  Father,"  said  I  calmly,  "  I  have  both  seen  and  known  the 
man." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  hermit,  and  he  leant  for  a  moment  against 
the  wall ;  "  known  him — and — how — how — I  mean,  where  is  he 
at  this  present  time  ?" 

"That,  father,  is  a  difficult  question,  respecting  one  who  has 

led  so  active  a  life.     He  was  ambassador  at  the  court  of  , 

just  before  I  left  it." 

We  had  now  passed  the  passage,  and  gained  a  room  of  tol- 
erable size  ;  an  iron  lamp  burnt  within,  and  afforded  a  suffi- 
cient, but  somewhat  dim,  light.  The  hermit,  as  I  concluded 
my  reply,  sunk  down  on  a  long  stone  bench,  beside  a  table  of 
the  same  substance,  and  leaning  his  face  on  his  hand,  so  that 
the  long,  large  sleeve  he  wore  perfectly  concealed  his  features, 
said,  "  Pardon  me,  my  breath  is  short,  and  my  frame  weak — I 
am  quite  exhausted — but  will  speak  to  you  more,  anon." 

I  uttered  a  short  answer,  and  drew  a  small  wooden  stool 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  hermit's  seat.  After  a  brief  silence  he 
rose,  placed  wine,  bread,  and  preserved  fruits,  before  me,  and 
bade  me  eat.  I  seemed  to  comply  with  his  request,  and  the 
apparent  diversion  of  my  attention  from  himself  somewhat  re- 
lieved the  embarrassment  under  which  he  evidently  labored. 

"  May  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  that  were  my  commission  to  this — 
to  the  Count  Devereux — you  would  execute  it  faithfully  and 
with  speed  ?  Yet  stay — you  have  a  high  mien,  as  of  one  above 
fortune,  but  your  garb  is  rude  and  poor  ;  and  if  aught  of  gold 
could  compensate  your  trouble,  the  hermit  has  other  treasuries 
beside  this  cell." 
,     "I  will  do  your  bidding,  father,  Avithout  robbing  the  poor. 


DEVEkEUX.  339 

You  wish  then  that  I  should  seek  Morton  Devereux — you  wish 
that  I  should  summon  him  hither — you  wish  to  see,  and  to 
confer  with  him  !  " 

"  God  of  mercy  forbid  ! "  cried  the  hermit,  and  with  such 
vehemence  that  I  was  startled  from  the  design  of  revealing  my- 
self, which  I  was  on  the  point  of  executing.  "I  would  rather 
that  these  walls  would  crush  me  into  dust,  or  that  this  solid 
stone  would  crumble  beneath  my  feet — ay,  even  into  a  bottom- 
less pit,  than  meet  the  glance  of  Morton  Devereux  !  " 

"  Is  it  even  so  ?"  said  I,  stooping  over  the  wine-cup  ;  "  ye 
have  been  foes  then,  I  suspect. — Well,  it  matters  not — tell  me 
your  errand,  and  it  shall  be  done." 

*'  Done  !  "  cried  the  hermit,  and  a  new,  and  certainly  a  most 
natural,  suspicion  darted  within  him,  "  done  !  and — fool  that  I 
am  ! — who,  or  what  are  you,  that  I  should  believe  you  take  so 
keen  an  interest  in  the  wishes  of  a  man  utterly  unknown  to  you  ? 
I  tell  you  that  my  wish  is  that  you  should  cross  seas  and  trav- 
erse lands  until  you  find  the  man  I  have  named  to  you.  Will 
a  stranger  do  this,  and  without  hire — no — no — I  was  a  fool, 
and  will  trust  the  monks,  and  give  gold,  and  then  my  errand 
will  be  sped." 
■  "  Father,  o,r  rather,  brother,"  said  I,  with  a  slow  and  firm 
'Voice,  "for  you  are  of  mine  own  age,  and  you  have  the  passion 
and  the  infirmity  which  make  brethren  of  all  mankind,  I  am 
one  to  whom  all  places  are  alike  :  it  matters  not  whether  I  visit 
-  a  northern  or  a  southern  clime — I  have  wealth,  which  is  suffi- 
cient to  smooth  toil — I  have  leisure,  which  makes  occupation 
an  enjoyment.  More  than  this,  I  am  one,  who  in  his  gayest 
and  wildest  moments  has  ever  loved  mankind,  and  would  have 
renounced  at  any  time  his  own  pleasure  for  the  advantage  of 
another.  But  at  this  time,  above  all  others,  I  am  most  dis- 
posed to  forget  myself,  and  there  is  a  passion  in  your  words 
which  leads  me  to  hope  that  it  may  be  a  gi-eat  benefit  which  I 
can  confer  upon  you." 

"  You  speak  well,"  said  the  hermit  musingly,  "  and  I  may 
trust  you  ;  I  will  consider  yet  a  little  longer,  and  to-morrow  at 
this  hour,  you  shall  have  my  final  answer.  If  you  execute  the 
charge  I  entrust  to  you,  may  the  blessing  of  a  dying  and  most 
wretched  man  cleave  to  you  forever  ! — But  hush — the  clock 
strikes — it  is  my  hour  of  prayer." 

And,  pointing  to  a  huge  black  clock  that  hung  opposite  the 
door,  and  indicated  the  hour  of  nine  (according  to  our  English 
mode  of  numbering  the  hours),  the  hermit  fell  on  his  knees, 
and,  clasping  his  hands  tightly,  bent  his  face  over  them  in  the 


340  DEVEREUX. 

attitude  of  humiliation  and  devotion.  I  followed  his  ex- 
ample. After  a  few  minutes  he  rose — "Once  in  every 
three  hours,"  said  he,  with  a  ghastly  expression,  "for  the 
last  twelve  years  have  I  bowed  my  soul  in  anguish  before 
God,  and  risen  to  feel  that  it  was  in  vain — I  am  cursed  with- 
out and  within  !  " 

"  My  father,  my  father,  is  this  your  faith  in  the  mercies  of 
the  Redeemer  who  died  for  Man  ?" 

"  Talk  not  to  me  of  faith  !  "  cried  the  hermit  wildly.  "Ye 
laymen  and  worldlings  know  nothing  of  its  mysteries  and  its 
powers.  But  begone  !  the  dread  hour  is  upon  me,  when  my 
tongue  is  loosed,  and  my  brain  darkened,  and  I  know  not  my 
words,  and  shudder  at  my  own  thoughts.  Begone  !  no  human 
being  shall  witness  those  moments — they  are  only  for  Heaven 
and  my  own  soul." 

So  saying,  this  unhappy  and  strange  being  seized  me  by  the 
arm  and  dragged  me  towards  the  passage  we  had  entered,  I 
was  in  doubt  whether  to  yield  to,  or  contend  with  him  ;  but 
there  was  a  glare  in  his  eye,  and  a  flush  upon  his  brow,  which, 
while  it  betrayed  the  dreadful  disease  of  his  mind,  made  me 
fear  that  resistance  to  his  wishes  might  operate  dangerously 
upon  a  frame  so  feeble  and  reduced.  I  therefore  mechanically 
obeyed  him.  He  opened  again  the  entrance  to  his  rugged 
home,  and  the  moonlight  streamed  wanly  over  his  dark  robes 
and  spectral  figure. 

"  Go,"  said  he,  more  mildly  than  before — "  go,  and  forgive 
the  vehemence  of  one  whose  mind  and  heart  alike  are  broken 
within  him.  Go,  but  return  to-morrow  at  sunset.  Your  air 
disposes  me  to  trust  you." 

So  saying,  he  closed  the  door  upon  me,  and  I  stood  without 
the  cavern  alone. 

But  did  I  return  home  ?  Did  I  hasten  to  press  my  couch  in 
sleep  and  sweet  forgetfulness,  while  he  was  in  that  gloomy  se- 
pulture of  the  living,  a  prey  to  anguish,  and  torn  by  the  fangs 
of  madness  and  a  fierce  disease  ?  No — on  the  damp  grass,  be- 
neath the  silent  skies,  I  passed  a  night  which  could  scarcely 
have  been  less  wretched  than  his  own.  My  conjecture  was 
now,  and  in  full,  confirmed.  Heavens  !  how  I  loved  that  man — 
how,  from  my  youngest  years,  had  my  soul's  fondest  affections 
interlaced  themselves  with  him  ! — with  what  anguish  had  I 
wept  his  imagined  death  ?  and  now  to  know  that  he  lay  within 
those  walls,  smitten  from  brain  to  heart  with  so  fearful  and 
mysterious  a  curse — to  know,  too,  that  he  dreaded  the  sight  of 
me— of  me  who  would  have  laid  down  mv  life  for  his! — the 


t>EVER£U3C.  341 

grave,  which  I  imagined  his  home^  had  been  a  mercy  to  a 
doom  like  this. 

"  He  fears,"  I  murmured,  and  I  wept  as  I  said  it,  "  to  look 
on  one  who  would  watch  over,  and  soothe,  and  bear  with  him, 
with  more  than  a  woman's  love  !  By  what  awful  fate  has  this 
calamity  fallen  on  one  so  holy  and  so  pure  ?  or  by  what  pre- 
orded  destiny  did  I  come  to  these  solitudes,  to  find  at  the  same 
time  a  new  charm  for  the  earth,  and  a  spell  to  change  it  again 
into  a  desert  and  a  place  of  woe  ?  " 

All  night  I  kept  vigil  by  the  cave,  and  listened  if  I  could 
catch  moan  or  sound  ;  but  everything  was  silent;  the  thick 
walls  of  the  rock  kept  even  the  voice  of  despair  from  my  ear. 
The  day  dawned,  and  I  retired  among  the  trees,  lest  the  hermit 
might  come  out  unawares  and  see  me.  At  sunrise  I  saw  him 
appear  for  a  few  moments,  and  again  retire,  and  I  then  hastened 
home,  exhausted  and  wearied  by  the  internal  conflicts  of  the 
night,  to  gather  coolness  and  composure  for  the  ensuing  inter- 
view, which  I  contemplated  at  once  with  eagerness  and 
dread. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  I  repaired  to  the  cavern  :  the  door 
was  partially  closed  ;  I  opened  it,  hearing  no  answer  to  my 
knock,  and  walked  gently  along  the  passage  ;  but  I  now  heard 
shrieks,  and  groans,  and  wild  laughter  as  I  neared  the  rude 
chamber.  I  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  in  terror  and  dis- 
may entered  the  apartment.  It  was  empty  ;  but  I  saw  near  the 
clock  a  small  door,  from  within  which  the  sounds  that  alarmed 
me  proceeded.  I  had  no  scruple  in  opening  it,  and  found  my- 
self in  the  hermit's  sleeping-chamber  ;  a  small,  dark  room, 
where,  upon  a  straw  pallet,  lay  the  wretched  occupant  in  a 
state  of  frantic  delirium.  I  stood  mute  and  horror-struck,  while 
his  exclamations  of  frenzy  burst  upon  my  ear. 

"  There — there  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  have  struck  thee  to  the  heart, 
and  now  I  will  kneel  and  kiss  those  white  lips,  and  bathe  my 
hands  in  that  blood.  Ha  ! — do  I  hate  thee  ? — hate — ay — hate, 
abhor,  detest  !  Have  you  the  beads  there? — let  me  tell  them. 
Yes,  I  will  go  to  the  confessional — confess?  No,  no — all  the 
priests  in  the  world  could  not  lift  up  a  soul  so  heavy  with  guilt. 
Help — help — help  !  I  am  falling — falling — there  is  the  pit,  and 
the  fire,  and  the  devils  !  Do  you  hear  them  laugh  ? — I  can 
laugh  too  ! — ha — ha — ha  !  Hush,  I  have  written  it  all  out  in  a 
fair  hand — he  shall  read  it — and  then,  O  God  !  what  curses  he 
will  heap  upon  my  head  !  Blessed  St.  Francis,  hear  me  J 
Lazarus,  Lazarus,  speak  for  me  !  " 

Thus  did  the  hermit  rave,  while  my  flesh  crept  to  hear  him. 


34*  DEVEREUX. 

I  Stood  by  his  bedside,  and  called  on  him,  but  he  neither  heard 
nor  saw  me.  Upon  the  ground,  by  the  bed's  head,  as  if  it 
had  dropt  from  under  the  pillow,  was  a  packet  sealed  and 
directed  to  myself  ;  I  knew  the  handwriting  at  a  glance,  even 
though  the  letters  were  blotted  and  irregular,  and  possibly 
traced  in  the  first  moment  that  his  present  curse  fell  upon  the 
writer.  I  placed  the  packet  in  my  bosom  ;  the  hermit  saw  not 
the  motion,  he  lay  back  on  the  bed,  seemingly  in  utter  exhaus- 
tion. I  turned  away,  and  hastened  to  the  monastery  for  assist- 
ance. As  I  hurried  through  the  passage,  the  hermit's  shrieks 
again  broke  upon  me,  with  a  fiercer  vehemence  than  before.  I 
flew  from  them,  as  if  they  were  sounds  from  the  abyss  of  Hades. 
I  flew  till,  breathless,  and  half-senseless  myself,  1  fell  down 
exhausted  by  the  gate  of  the  monastery. 

The  two  most  skilled  in  physic  of  the  brethren  were  immedi- 
ately summoned,  and  they  lost  not  a  moment  in  accompanying 
me  to  the  cavern.  All  that  evening,  until  midnight,  the  frenzy 
of  the  maniac  seemed  rather  to  increase  than  abate.  But  at 
that  hour,  indeed,  exactly,  as  the  clock  struck  twelve,  he  fell 
at  once  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Then  for  the  first  time,  but  not  till  the  wearied  brethren  had, 
at  this  favorable  symptom,  permitted  themselves  to  return  for 
a  brief  interval  to  the  monastery,  to  seek  refreshment  for 
themselves,  and  to  bring  down  new  medicines  for  the  patient, — 
then  for  the  first  time,  I  rose  from  the  hermit's  couch  by  which 
I  had  hitherto  kept  watch,  and,  repairing  to  the  outer  chamber, 
took  forth  the  packet  superscribed  with  my  name.  There, 
alone,  in  that  gray  vault,  and  by  the  sepulchral  light  of  the 
single  lamp,  I  read  what  follows. 

THE   hermit's  manuscript. 

"  Morton  Devereux,  if  ever  this  reach  you,  read  it,  shudder, 
and  whatever  your  afflictions,  bless  God  that  you  are  not  as  I 
am.  Do  you  remember  my  prevailing  characteristics  as  a  boy  ? 
No,  you  do  not.  You  v/ill  say  '  Devotion  ! '  It  was  not ! 
'Gentleness.'  It  was  not — it  was  JEALOUSY!  Now  does 
the  truth  flash  on  yon  ?  Yes,  that  was  the  disease  that  was  in 
my  blood,  and  in  my  heart,  and  through  whose  ghastly  medium 
every  living  object  was  beheld.  Did  I  love  you  ?  Yes,  I  loved 
you — ay,  almost  with  a  love  equal  to  your  own.  I  loved  my 
mother — I  loved  Gerald* — I  loved  Montreuil,  It  was  a  part  of 
my  nature  to  love,  and  I  did  not  resist  the  impulse,  YoU:  I 
loved  better  than  all ;  but  I  was  jealous  of  each.     If  my  mother 


DEVEREUX.  343 

caressed  you  or  Gerald — if  jvu  opened  your  heart  to  either,  it 
stung  me  to  the  quick.  I  it  was  who  said  to  my  mother, 
'  Caress  him  not,  or  I  shall  think  you  love  him  better  than  me.' 
I  it  was  who  widened,  from  my  veriest  childhood,  the  breach 
between  Gerald  and  yourself.  I  it  was  who  gave  to  the  child- 
ish reproach  a  venom,  and  to  the  childish  quarrel  a  barb. 
Was  this  love  ?  Yes,  it  was  love ;  but  I  could  not  endure  that 
ye  should  love  one  another  as  ye  loved  me.  It  delighted  me 
when  one  confided  to  my  ear  a  complaint  against  the  oiher, 
and  said,  'Aubrey,  this  blow  could  not  have  come  from  thee  !  ' 

"  Montreuil  early  perceived  my  bias  of  temper  ;  he  might 
have  corrected  it,  and  with  ease.  I  was  not  evil  in  disposition  ; 
I  was  insensible  of  my  own  vice.  Had  its  malignity  been  re- 
vealed to  me,  I  should  have  recoiled  in  horror.  Montreuil  had 
a  vast  power  over  me  ;  he  could  mould  me  at  his  will.  Mon- 
treuil, I  repeat,  might  have  saved  me,  and  thyself,  and  a  third 
being,  better  and  purer  than  either  of  us  was,  even  in  our  cra- 
dles. Montreuil  did  not  ;  he  had  an  object  to  serve,  and  he 
sacrificed  our  whole  house  to  it.  He  found  me  one  day  weep- 
ing over  a  dog  that  I  had  killed.  '  Why  did  you  destroy  it  ? ' 
he  said  ;  and  I  answered,  'Because  it  loved  Morton  betterthan 
me  ! '  And  the  priest  said,  *  Thou  didst  right,  Aubrey  ! '  Yes, 
from  that  time  he  took  advantage  of  my  infirmity,  and  cotild 
rouse  or  calm  all  my  passions  in  proportion  as  he  irritated  or 
soothed  it. 

"You  know  this  man's  object  during  the  latter  period  of  his 
residence  with  us  :  it  was  the  restoration  of  the  house  of  Stuart- 
He  was  alternately  the  spy  and  the  agitator  in  that  cause.  Among 
more  comprehensive  plans  for  effecting  this  object  was  that  of 
securing  tlie  heirs  to  the  great  wealth  and  popular  name  of  Sir 
William  Devereux.  This  was  only  a  minor  mesh  in  the  intricate 
web  of  his  schemes  ;  but  it  is  the  character  of  the  man  to  take  ex- 
actly the  same  pains,  and  pursue  the  same  laborious  intrigues,  for 
a  small  object  as  for  a  great  one.  His  first  impression,  on  en- 
tering our  house,  was  in  favor  of  Gerald  :  and  I  believe  he  really 
likes  him  to  this  day  better  than  either  of  us.  Partly  your  sar- 
casms, partly  Gerald's  disputes  with  you,  partly  my  representa- 
tions— for  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  love  of  Montreuil — pre- 
possessed him  against  you.  He  thought  too,  that  Gerald  had 
more  talent  to  serve  his  purposes  than  yourself,  and  more  fa- 
cility in  being  moulded  to  them  ;  and  he  believed  our  uncle's 
partiality  to  you  far  from  being  unalienable.  I  have  said  that, 
at  the  latter  period  of  his  residence  with  us,  he  was  an  agent 
of  the  exiled  cause,     At  the  time  I  ^070  speak  of,  he  had  not 


344  DEVEREUX. 

entered  into  the  great  political  scheme  which  engrossed  him  af- 
terwards. He  was  merely  a  restless  arid  aspiring  priest,  whose 
whole  hope,  object,  ambition,  was  the  advancement  of  his  or- 
der. He  knew  that  whoever  inherited,  or  whoever  shared  my 
uncle's  wealth,  could,  under  legitimate  regulation,  promote  any 
end  which  the  heads  of  that  order  might  select  ;  and  he  wished 
therefore  to  gain  the  mastery  over  us  all.  Intrigue  was  essen- 
tially woven  with  his  genius,  and  by  intrigue  only  did  he  ever 
seek  to  arrive  at  any  end  he  had  in  view.*  He  soon  obtained 
a  mysterious  and  pervading  power  over  Gerald  and  myself. 
Your  temper  at  once  irritated  him,  and  made  him  despair  of 
obtaining  an  ascendant  over  one  who,  though  he  testified  in 
childhood  none  of  the  talents  for  which  he  has  since  been  noted, 
testified,  nevertheless,  a  shrewd,  penetrating  and  sarcastic  power 
of  observation  and  detection.  You,  therefore,  he  resolved  to 
leave  to  the  irregularities  of  your  own  nature,  confident  that 
they  would  yield  him  the  opportunity  of  detaching  your  uncle 
from  you,  and  ultimately  securing  to  Gerald  his  estates. 

"  The  trial  at  school  first  altered  his  intentions.  He  imagined 
that  he  then  saw  in  you  powers  which  might  be  rendered  avail- 
ing to  him  :  he  conquered  his  pride — a  great  feature  in  his 
character — and  he  resolved  to  seek  your  affection.  Your  sub- 
sequent regularity  of  habits,  and  success  in  study,  confirmed  him 
in  his  resolution  ;  and  when  he  learnt,  from  my  uncle's  own 
lips,  that  the  Devereux  estates  would  devolve  on  you,  he  thought 
that  it  would  be  easier  to  secure  your  affection  to  him  than  to 
divert  that  affection  which  my  uncle  had  conceived  for  you. 
At  this  time  I  repeat,  he  had  no  particular  object  in  view  ; 
none,  at  least,  beyond  that  of  obtaining,  for  the  interest  of  his 
order,  the  direction  of  great  wealth  and  some  political  influence. 
Some  time  after — I  know  not  exactly  when,  but  before  we  re- 
turned to  take  our  permanent  abode  at  Devereux  Court — a 
share  in  the  grand  political  intrigue  which  was  then  in  so  many 
branches  carried  on  throughout  England,  and  even  Europe,  was 
confided  to  Montreuil. 

"  In  this  I  believe  he  was  the  servant  of  his  order,  rather  than 
immediately  of  the  exiled  house  ;  and  I  have  since  heard  that 
even  at  that  day  he  had  acquired  a  great  reputation  among  the 
professors  of  the  former.  You,  Morton,  he  decoyed  not  into 
this  scheme  before  he  left  England  :  he  had  not  acquired  a 
sufficient  influence  over  you  to  trust  you  with  the  disclosure. 
To  Gerald  and  myself    he  was   more    confidential.      Gerald 

*  It  will  be  observed  tbat  Aubrey  frequently  repeats  fonrer  assertions  ;  this  is  one  of  th? 
n)<?st  custonjary  traits  of  insanity. — Ep, 


DEVEREUX.  345 

eagerly  embraced  his  projects  through  a  spirit  of  enterprise — 
I  through  a  spirit  of  awe  and  of  religion.  RELIGION ! 
Yes, — then, — long  after, — now, — when  my  heart  was  and  is  the 
home  of  all  withering  and  evil  passions.  Religion  reigned — 
reigns,  over  me  a  despot  and  a  tyrant.  Its  terrors  haunt  meat 
this  hour — they  people  the  earth  and  the  air  with  shapes  of 
ghastly  menace  !  They — Heaven  pardon  me  !  what  would  my 
madness  utter  ?  Madness  ? — madness  ?  Ay  that  is  the  real 
scourge,  the  real  fire,  the  real  torture,  the  real  hell,  of  this  fair 
earth  ! 

"  Montreuil,  then,  by  different  pleas,  won  over  Gerald  and 
myself.  He  left  us,  but  engaged  us  in  constant  correspond- 
ence. *  Aubrey,'  he  said,  before  he  departed,  and  when  he  saw 
that  I  was  wounded  by  his  apparent  cordiality  towards  you  and 
Gerald — 'Aubrey,'  he  said,  soothing  me  on  this  point,  'think 
not  that  I  trust  Gerald  or  the  arrogant  Morton  as  I  trust  you. 
You  have  my  real  heart  and  my  real  trust.  It  is  necessary  to 
the  execution  of  this  project,  so  important  to  the  interests  of 
religion,  and  so  agreeable  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  that  we  should 
secure  all  co-operators  ;  but  they,  your  brothers,  Aubrey,  are 
the  tools  of  that  mighty  design — you  are  its  friend.'  Thus  it 
was  that,  at  all  times  when  he  irritated  too  sorely  the  vice  of 
my  nature,  he  flattered  it  into  seconding  his  views ;  and  thus, 
instead  of  conquering  my  evil  passions,  he  conquered  by  them. 
Curses No,  no,  no  ! — I  will  be  calm. 

"  We  returned  to  Devereux  Court,  and  we  grew  from  boy- 
hood into  youth.  I  loved  you  then,  Morton.  Ah!  what  would 
I  not  give  now  for  one  pure  feeling,  such  as  I  felt  in  your  love  ? 
Do  you  remember  the  day  on  which  you  had  extorted  from  my 
uncle  his  consent  to  your  leaving  us  for  the  pleasures  and 
pomps  of  London  ?  Do  you  remember  the  evening  of  that  day, 
when  I  came  to  seek  you,  and  we  sat  down  on  a  little  mound, 
and  talked  over  your  projects,  and  you  spoke  then  to  me  of 
my  devotion,  and  my  purer  and  colder  feelings  ?  Morton,  at 
that  very  moment  my  veins  burnt  with  passion  ! — at  that  very 
moment  my  heart  was  feeding  the  vulture  fated  to  live  and 
prey  within  it  forever!  Thrice  did  I  resolve  to  confide  in  you, 
as  we  then  sat  together,  and  thrice  did  my  evil  genius  forbid  it. 
You  seemed,  even  in  your  affection  to  me,  so  wholly  engrossed 
with  your  own  hopes — you  seemed  so  little  to  regret  leaving 
me — you  stung,  so  often  and  so  deeply,  in  our  short  conference, 
that  feeling  which  made  me  desire  to  monopolize  all  things  in 
those  I  loved,  that  I  said  inly — '  Why  should  I  bare  my  heart 
to  one  who  can  so  little  understand  it  ? '    And  so  we  turned 


346  DEVEREUX. 

home,  and  you  dreamt  not  of  that  which  was  then  within  me, 
and  which  was  destined  to  be  your  curse  and  mine. 

**  Not  many  weeks  previous  to  that  night,  I  had  seen  one 
whom  to  see  was  to  love  !  Love  ! — I  tell  you,  Morton,  that 
that  word  is  expressive  of  soft  and  fond  emotions,  and  there 
should  be  another  expressive  of  all  that  is  fierce,  and  dark,  and 
unrelenting  in  the  human  heart  ! — all  that  seems  most  like  the 
deadliest  and  the  blackest  hate,  and  yet  is  not  hate  !  I  saw 
this  being,  and  from  that  moment  my  real  nature,  which  had 
slept  hitherto,  awoke  !  I  remember  well,  it  was  one  evening  in 
the  beginning  of  summer  that  I  first  saw  her.  She  sat  alone  in 
the  little  garden  beside  the  cottage  door,  and  1  paused,  and, 
unseen,  looked  over  the  slight  fence  that  separated  us,  and  fed 
my  eyes  with  a  loveliness  that  I  thought  till  then,  only  twilight 
or  the  stars  could  wear  !  From  that  evening  I  came,  night 
after  night,  to  watch  her  from  the  same  spot  ;  and  every  time 
I  beheld  her,  the  poison  entered  deeper  and  deeper  into  my 
system.  At  length  I  had  an  opportunity  of  being  known  to 
her — of  speaking  to  her — of  hearing  her  speak — of  touching  the 
ground  she  had  hallowed — of  entering  the  home  where  she 
dwelt ! 

"  I  must  explain  ;  I  said  that  both  Gerald  and  myself  corre- 
sponded privately  with  Montreuil — we  were  both  bound  over  to 
secrecy  with  regard  to  you — and  this,  my  temper,  and  Gerald's 
coolness  with  you,  rendered  an  easy  obligation  to  both;  I  say 
ray  temper — for  I  loved  to  think  I  had  a  secret  not  known  to  an- 
other ;  and  I  carried  this  reserve  even  to  the  degree  of  conceal- 
ing from  Gerald  himself  the  greater  part  of  the  correspondence 
between  me  and  the  Abbe.  In  his  correspondence  with  each 
of  us,  Montreuil  acted  with  his  usual  skill ;  to  Gerald,  as  the 
elder  in  years,  the  more  prone  to  enterprise,  and  the  manlier  in 
aspect  and  in  character,  was  allotted  whatever  object  was  of 
real  trust  or  importance.  Gerald  it  was  who,  under  pretence  of 
pursuing  his  accustomed  sports,  conferred  with  the  various  agents 
of  intrigue  who  from  time  to  time  visited  our  coast ;  and  to  me 
the  Abbe  gave  words  of  endearment,  and  affected  the  language 
of  more  entire  trust.  *  Whatever,'  he  would  say  '  in  our  present 
half-mellowed  projects,  is  exposed  to  danger,  but  does  not  prom- 
ise reward,  I  entrust  to  Gerald  ;  hereafter,  far  higher  employ- 
ment, under  far  safer  and  surer  auspices,  will  be  yours.  We  are 
the  heads — be  ours  the  nobler  occupation  to  plan — and  let  us 
leave  to  inferior  natures  the  vain  and  perilous  triumph  to  exe- 
cute what  we  design.' 

"All  this  I  readily  assented  to  ;  for,  despite  my  acquiescence 


DEVEREUX.  347 

in  Montreuil's  wishes,  I  loved  not  enterprise,  or  rather  I  hated 
whatever  roused  me  from  the  dreamy  and  abstracted  indolence 
which  was  most  dear  to  my  temperament.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, with  a  great  show  of  confidence,  Montreuil  would  request 
me  to  execute  some  quiet  and  unimportant  commission  ;  and  of 
this  nature  was  one  I  received  while  I  was  thus,  unknown  even 
to  the  object,  steeping  my  soul  in  the  first  intoxication  of  love. 
The  plots  then  carried  on  by  certain  ecclesiastics,  I  need  not  say 
extended,  in  one  linked  chain,  over  the  greater  part  of  the  con- 
tinent. Spain,  in  especial,  was  the  theatre  of  these  intrigues; 
and  among  the  tools  employed  in  executing  them  were  some, 
who,  though  banished  from  that  country,  still,  by  the  rank  they 
had  held  in  it,  carried  a  certain  importance  in  their  very  names. 
Foremost  of  these  was  the  father  of  the  woman  I  loved'— and 
foremost,  in  whatever  promised  occupation  to  a  restless  mind, 
he  was  always  certain  to  be. 

"  Montreuil  now  commissioned  me  to  seek  out  a  certain  Bar- 
nard (an  underling  in  those  secret  practices  or  services,  for  which 
he  afterwards  suffered,  and  who  was  then  in  that  part  of  the 
country),  and  to  communicate  to  him  some  messages,  of  which  he 
was  to  be  the  bearer  to  this  Spaniard.  A  thought  flashed  upon 
me — Montreuil's  letter  mentioned,  accidently,  that  the  Spaniard 
had  never  hitherto  seen  Barnard  :  could  I  not  personate  the 
latter — deliver  the  messages  myself,  and  thus  win  that  introduc- 
tion to  the  daughter  which  I  so  burningly  desired,  and  which, 
from  the  close  reserve  of  the  father's  habits,  I  might  not  other- 
wise effect  ?  The  plan  was  open  to  two  objections  :  one  that  I 
was  known  personally  in  the  town  in  the  environs  of  which 
the  Spaniard  lived,  and  he  might  therefore  very  soon  discover 
who  I  really  was  ;  the  other,  that  I  was  not  in  possession  of  all 
the  information  which  Barnard  might  possess,  and  which  the 
Spaniard  might  wish  to  learn  ;  but  these  objections  had  not 
much  weight  with  me.  To  the  first,  I  said  inly,  '  I  will  oppose 
the  most  constant  caution,  I  will  go  always  on  foot,  and  alone — 
I  will  never  be  seen  in  the  town  itself — and  even  should  the 
Spaniard,  who  seems  rarely  to  stir  abroad,  and  who,  possibly, 
does  not  speak  our  language — even  should  he  learn,  by  acci- 
dent, that  Barnard  is  only  another  name  for  Aubrey  Devereux, 
it  will  not  be  before  I  have  gained  my  object ;  nor,  perhaps, 
before  the  time  when  I  myself  may  wish  to  acknowledge  my 
identity.'  To  the  second  objection  I  saw  a  yet  more  ready  an- 
swer. '  I  will  acquaint  Montreuil  at  once,'  I  said,  'with  my 
intention  ;  I  will  claim  his  connivance  as  a  proof  of  his  confi- 
dence, and  as  an  essay  of  my  own  genius  of  intrigue.'     I  did  so; 


^348  DEVEREUX. 

the  priest,  perhaps  delighted  to  involve  me  so  deeply,  and  to 
find  me  so  ardent  in  his  project,  consented.  Fortunately,  as  I 
before  said,  Barnard  was  an  underling — young-^unknovvn — and 
obscure.  My  youth,  therefore,  was  not  so  great  a  foe  to  my 
assumed  disguise  as  it  might  otherwise  have  been.  Montreuil 
supplied  all  requisite  information.  I  tried  (for  the  first  time, 
with  a  beating  heart  and  a  tremulous  voice)  the  imposition  ;  it 
succeeded — I  continued  it.  Yes,  Morton,  yes  ! — pour  forth 
upon  me  your  bitterest  execration — in  me — in  your  brother — 
in  the  brother  so  dear  to  you — in  the  brother  whom  you  imag- 
ined so  passionless — so  pure — so  sinless — behold  that  Barnard — 
the  lover — the  idolatrous  lover — the  foe — the  deadly  foe — of 
Isora  d'Alvarez ! " 

Here  the  manuscript  was  defaced  for  some  pages,  by  incoher- 
ent and  meaningless  ravings.  It  seemed  as  if  one  of  his  dark 
fits  of  frenzy  had  at  that  time  come  over  the  writer.  At  length, 
in  a  more  firm  and  clear  character  than  that  immediately  pre- 
ceding it,  the  manuscript  continued  as  follows : 

"  I  loved  her,  but  even  then  it  was  with  a  fierce  and  ominous 
love — (ominous  of  what  it  became).  Often  in  the  still  evenings, 
when  we  stood  together  watching  the  sun  set — when  my  tongue 
trembled  but  did  not  dare  to  speak — when  all  soft  and  sweet 
thoughts  filled  the  heart  and  glistened  in  the  eye  of  that  most 
sensitive  and  fairy  being — when  my  own  brow,  perhaps,  seemed 
to  reflect  the  same  emotions — feelings,  which  I  even  shuddered 
to  conceive,  raged  within  me.  Had  we  stood  together,  in  those 
moments,  upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  I  could  have  wound 
my  arms  around  her,  and  leapt  with  her  into  the  abyss.  Every 
thing  but  one  nursed  my  passion  ;  nature — solitude — early 
dreams — all  kindled  and  fed  that  fire  :  Religion  only  combated 
it ;  I  knew  it  was  a  crime  to  love  any  of  earth's  creatures  as  I 
loved.  I  used  the  scourge  and  the  fast  * — I  wept  hot — burn- 
ing tears — I  prayed  and  the  intensity  of  my  prayer  appalled 
even  myself,  as  it  rose  from  my  maddened  heart,  in  the  depth 
and  stillness  of  the  lone  night:  but  the  flame  burnt  higher  and 
more  scorchingly  from  the  oi)position  ;  nay,  it  was  the  very 
knowledge  that  my  love  was  criminal  that  made  it  assume  so 
fearful  and  dark  a  shape.  '  Thou  art  the  cause  of  my  downfall 
from  Heaven!'  I  muttered,  when  I  looked  upon  Isora's  calm 

*  I  need  not  point  out  to  the  Novel-reader  how  completely  the  character  of  Aiihrey  has 
been  stolen  in  a  certain  celebrated  French  Romance — Hut  the  wiiter  I  allude  to  is  not  so 
nnmercifnl  as  M.  de  Balzac,  who  has  pillaged  scenes  in  the  Disowned,  with  a  most  gratify- 
ing politeness. 


DEVEREUX.  34^ 

face — thou  feelest  it  not,  and  I  could  destroy  thee  and  myself — 
myself  the  criminal — thee  the  cause  of  the  crime  !  ' 

"It  must  have  been  that  my  eyes  betrayed  my  feelings,  that 
Isora  loved  me  not — that  she  shrunk  from  me  even  at  the  first — 
why  else  should  I  not  have  called  forth  the  same  sentiments 
which  she  gave  to  you  ?  Was  not  my  form  cast  in  a  mould  as 
fair  as  yours  ? — did  not  my  voice  whisper  in  as  sweet  a  tone  ? — 
did  I  not  love  her  with  as  wild  a  love  ?  Why  should  she  not 
have  loved  me  ?  I  was  the  first  whom  she  beheld — she  would — 
ay,  perhaps  she  would  have  loved  me,  if  you  had  not  come 
and  marred  all.  Curse  yourself,  then  that  you  were  my 
rival  ! — curse  yourself  that  you  made  my  heart  as  a  furnace, 
and  smote  my  brain  with  frenzy — curse — Oh,  sweet  Virgin  for^ 
give  me  ! — I  know  not — I  know  not  what  my  tongue  utters  or 
my  hand  traces  ! 

"  You  came,  then,  Morton,  you  came — you  knew  her — j'ou 
loved  her — she  loved  you.  I  learned  that  you  had  gained  ad- 
mittance to  the  cottage,  and  the  moment  I  learned  it,  I  looked 
on  Isora,  and  felt  my  fate,  as  by  intuition  :  I  saw  at  once  that 
she  was  prepared  to  love  you — 1  saw  the  very  moment  when 
that  love  kindled  from  conception  into  form — I  saw — and  at 
that  moment  my  eyes  reeled  and  my  ears  rung  as  with  the  sound 
of  a  rushing  sea,  and  I  thought  I  felt  a  chord  snap  within  my 
brain,  which  has  never  been  united  again. 

"  Once  only,  after  your  introduction  to  the  cottage,  did  I 
think  of  confiding  to  you  my  love  and  rivalship  ;  you  remem- 
ber one  night  when  we  met  by  the  castle  cave,  and  when  your 
kindness  touched  and  softened  me,  despite  of  myself.  The  day 
after  that  night  I  sought  you,  with  the  intention  of  communi- 
cating to  you  all  ;  and  while  I  was  yet  struggling  with  my  em- 
barrassment, and  the  suffocating  tide  of  my  emotions,  you  pre- 
meditated me,  by  giving  me  j<7i^r  confidence.  Engrossed  with 
your  own  feelings,  you  were  not  observant  of  mine ;  and  as 
you  dwelt  and  dilated  upon  your  love  for  Isora,  all  emotions, 
save  those  of  agony  and  of  fury,  vanished  from  my  breast.  I 
did  not  answer  you  then  at  any  length,  for  I  was  too  agitated 
to  trust  to  prolix  speech  ;  but  by  the  next  day  I  had  recovered 
myself,  and  I  resolved,  as  far  as  I  was  able,  to  play  the  hypo- 
crite. '  He  cannot  love  her  as  I  do  ! '  I  said  ;  'perhaps  I  may, 
without  disclosure  of  my  rivalship,  and  without  sin  in  the  at- 
tempt, detach  him  from  her  by  reason.'  Fraught  with  this  idea, 
I  collected  myself — sought  you — remonstrated  with  you — repre- 
sented the  worldlyjolly  of  your  love,  and  uttered  all  that  pru- 
dence preaches — in  vain,  where  it  preaches  against  passion  ! 


350  devereux. 

"Let  me  be  brief.  I  saw  that  it  made  no  impression  om 
you — I  stifled  my  wrath — I  continued  to  visit  and  watch  Isora. 
I  timed  my  opportunities  well — my  constant  knowledge  of  your 
motions  allowed  me  to  do  that  ;  besides,  I  represented  to  the 
Spaniard  the  necessity,  through  political  motives,  of  concealing 
myself  from  you  ;  hence,  we  never  encountered  each  other. 
One  evening,  Alvarez  had  gone  out  to  meet  one  of  his  coun- 
trymen and  confederates.  I  found  Isora  alone,  in  the  most 
sequestered  part  of  the  garden, — her  loveliness,  and  her  ex- 
ceeding gentleness  of  manner,  melted  me.  For  the  first  time 
audibly,  my  heart  spoke  out,  and  I  told  her  of  my  idolatry. 
Idolatry  ! — ay,  that  is  the  only  word,  since  it  signifies  both  wor- 
ship and  guilt !  She  heard  me  timidly,  gently,  coldly.  She 
spoke — and  I  found  confirmed,  from  her  ovvn  lips,  what  my 
reason  had  before  told  me — that  there  was  no  hope  for  me. 
The  iron  that  entered,  also  roused,  my  heart.  '  Enough  ! '  I 
cried  fiercely,  'you  love  this  Morton  Devereux,  and  for  him  I 
am  scorned.'  Isora  blushed  and  trembled,  and  all  my  senses 
fled  from  me.  I  scarcely  know  in  what  words  my  rage  and  my 
despair  clothed  themselves  ;  but  I  know  that  I  divulged  myself 
to  her — I  know  that  I  told  her  I  was  the  brother — the  rival — 
the  enemy  of  the  man  she  loved, — I  know  that  I  uttered  the 
fiercest  and  the  wildest  menaces  and  execrations — I  know  that 
my  vehemence  so  overpowered  and  terrified  her  that  her  mind 
was  scarcely  less  clouded — less  lost,  rather  than  my  own.  At 
that  moment  the  sound  of  your  horse's  hoofs  was  heard ; 
Isora's  eye  brightened,  and  her  mien  grew  firm.  '  He  comes,' 
she  said,  '  and  he  will  protect  me  I  ' — '  Hark  ! '  I  said,  sinking 
my  voice,  and,  as  my  drawn  sword  flashed  in  one  hand,  the 
other  grasped  her  arm  with  a  savage  force — *  hark,  woman  ! ' 
I  said — and  an  oath  of  the  blackest  fury  accompanied  my 
threats — '  swear  that  you  will  never  divulge  to  Morton  Deve- 
reux who  is  his  real  rival — that  you  will  never  declare  to  him 
nor  to  anyone  else,  that  the  false  Barnard  and  the  true  Aubrey 
Devereux  are  the  same — swear  this,  or  I  swear  (and  I  repeated 
with  a  solemn  vehemence,  that  dread  oath)  that  I  will  stay 
here — that  I  will  confront  my  rival — that,  the  moment  he  be- 
holds me,  I  will  plunge  this  sword  into  his  bosom — and  that, 
before  I  perish  myself,  I  will  hasten  to  the  town,  and  will  utter 
there  a  secret  which  will  send  your  father  to  the  gallows — now, 
your  choice  ?  ' 

"  Morton,  you  have  often  praised,  my  uncle  has  often  jested 
at,  the  womanish  softness  of  my  face.  There  have  been  mo- 
ments when   I   have  seen  that  face  in  the  glass,  and  known  it 


DEVEREUX.  351 

not,  but  started  in  wild  affright,  and  fancied  that  I  beheld  a 
a  demon  ;  perhaps  in  that  moment  this  change  was  over  it. 
Slowly  Isora  gazed  upon  me — slowly  blanched  into  the  liues  of 
death  grew  her  cheek  and  lip — slowly  that  lip  uttered  the  oath 
I  enjoined.  I  released  my  gripe,  and  she  fell  to  the  earth,  sud- 
den and  stunned  as  if  struck  by  lightning.  I  stayed  not  to  look 
on  what  I  had  done — 1  heard  your  step  advance — I  fled  by  a 
path  that  led  from  the  garden  to  the  beach — and  I  reached  my 
home  without  retaining  a  single  recollection  of  the  space  I  had 
traversed  to  attain  it. 

*'  Despite  the  night  I  passed — a  night  which  I  will  leave  you 
to  imagine- — I  rose  the  next  morning  with  a  burning  interest  to 
learn  from  you  what  had  passed  after  my  flight,  and  with  a  power, 
peculiar  to  the  stormiest  passions,  of  an  outward  composure 
while  I  listened  to  the  recital.  I  saw  that  I  was  safe,  and  I 
heard,  with  a  joy  so  rapturous,  that  I  question  whether  even 
Is'ora's  assent  to  my  love  would  have  given  me  an  equal  trans- 
port, thai  she  had  rejected  you.  I  uttered  some  advice  to 
you  commonplace  enough — it  displeased  you,  and  we  separated. 

"  That  evening,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  privately  visited  by 
Montreuil.  He  had  some  designs  in  hand  which  brought  him 
from  France  into  the  neighborhood,  but  which  made  him  de- 
sirous of  concealment.  He  soon  drew  from  me  my  secret ; 
it  is  marvellous,  indeed,  what  power  he  had  of  penetrating, 
ruling,  moulding  my  feelings  and  my  thoughts.  He  wished,  at 
that  time,  a  communication  to  be  made,  and  a  letter  to  be  given, 
to  Alvarez.  I  could  not  execute  this  commission  personally, 
for  you  had  informed  me  of  your  intention  of  watching  if  you 
could  not  discover  or  meet  with  Barnard,  and  I  knew  you  were 
absent  from  home  on  that  very  purpose.  Nor  was  Montreuil 
himself  desirous  of  incurring  the  risk  of  being  seen  by  you — ■ 
you  over  whom,  sooner  or  later,  he  then  trusted  to  obtain  a 
power  equal  to  that  which  he  held  over  your  brothers.  Gerald 
then  was  chosen  to  execute  the  commission.  He  did  so — he 
met  Alvarez  for  the  first  and  the  only  time  on  the  beach,  by  the 

town  of  ^ .     You  saw  him,  arid  imagined  you  beheld  the  real 

Barnard. 

"  But  I  anticipate — fcir  you  did  not  inform  me  of  that  occur- 
rence, nor  the  inference  you  drew  from  it,  till  afterwards. 
You  returned,  however,  after  witnessing  that  meeting,  and  for  two 
days  your  passions  (passions  which,  intense  and  fierce  as  mine, 
show  that,  under  similar  circumstances,  you  might  have  been 
equally  guilty)  terminated  in  fever.  You  were  confined  to  your 
bed  for  three  or  four  days  ;  meanwhile  I  took  advantage  of  tho 


352  DEVEREUX. 

event.  Montreuil  suggested  a  plan  whicli  I  readily  embraced, 
I  sought  [the  Spaniard,  and  told  him  in  confidence  that 
you  were  a  suitor — but  a  suitor  upon  the  most  dishonorable 
terms — to  his  daughter.  I  told  him,  moreover,  that  you  had 
detected  his  schemes,  and  in  order  to  deprive  Isora  of  protec- 
tion, and  abate  any  obstacles  resulting  from  her  pride,  to  betray 
him  to  the  government.  I  told  him  that  his  best  and  most  pru- 
dent, nay,  his  only,  chance  of  safety  for  Isora  and  himself  was 
to  leave  his  present  home,  and  take  refuge  in  the  vast  mazes  of 
the  metropolis.  I  told  him  not  to  betray  to  you  his  knowl- 
edge of  your  criminal  intentions,  lest  it  might  needlessly  exas- 
perate you.  I  furnished  him  wherewithal  to  repay  you  the  sum 
which  you  had  lent  him,  and  by  which  you  had  commenced  his 
acquaintance  :  and  I  dictated  to  him  the  very  terms  of  the  note 
in  which  the  sum  was  to  be  enclosed.  After  this  I  felt  happy. 
You  were  separated  from  Isora — she  might  forget  you — you 
might  forget  her.  I  was  possessed  of  the  secret  of  her  father's 
present  retreat^ — I  might  seek  it  at  my  pleasure,  and  ultimately — 
so  hope  whispered — prosper  in  my  love. 

"  Some  time  afterwards  you  mentioned  your  suspicions  of 
Gerald  ;  I  did  not  corroborate,  but  I  did  not  seek  to  destroy, 
them.  '  They  already  hate  each  other,'  I  said  :  '  can  the  hate 
be  greater  ?  meanwhile,  let  it  divert  suspicion  from  me  !  '  Ger- 
ald knew  of  the  agency  of  the  real  Barnard,  though  he  did  not 
know  that  I  had  assumed  the  name  of  that  person.  When  you 
taxed  him  with  his  knowledge  of  the  man,  he  was  naturally  con- 
fused. You  interpreted  that  confusion  into  the  fact  of  his  being 
your  rival,  while  in  truth  it  arose  from  his  belief  that  you  had 
possessed  yourself  of  his  political  schemes.  Montreuil,  who 
had  lurked  chiefly  in  the  islet  opposite  *  the  Castle  Cave,'  had 
returned  to  France  on  the  same  day  that  Alvarez  repaired  to 
London.  Previous  to  this,  we  had  held  some  conferences  to- 
gether upon  my  love.  At  first  he  had  opposed  and  reasoned 
with  it,  but,  startled  and  astonished  by  the  intensity  with  which 
it  possessed  me,  he  gave  way  to  my  vehemence  at  last.  I  have 
said  that  I  had  adopted  his  advice  in  one  instance.  The  fact 
of  having  received  his  advice — the  advice  of  one  so  pious — so 
free  from  human  passion — so  devoted  to  one  object,  which  ap- 
peared to  him  the  cause  of  Religion — advice,  too,  in  a  love  so 
fiery  and  overwhelming, — that  fact  made  me  think  myself  less 
criminal  than  I  had  done  before.  He  advised  me  yet  further. 
*  Do  not  seek  Isora,'  he  said,  '  till  some  time  has  elapsed — till 
her  new-born  love  for  your  brother  has  died  away — till  the  im- 
pression of  fear  you  have  caused  in  her  is  somewhat  effaced — 


DEVKREUX.  353 

till  time  and  absence  too  have  done  their  work  in  tlie  mind  of 
Morton,  and  you  will  no  longer  have  for  your  rival  one  who  is 
not  only  a  brother,  but  a  man  of  a  fierce,  resolute,  and  unre- 
lenting temper.' 

"  1  yielded  to  this  advice — partly  because  it  promised  so  fair  ; 
partly  because  I  was  not  systematically  vicious,  and  I  wished, 
if  possible,  to  do  away  with  our  rivalship  ;  and  principally  be- 
cause I  knew,  in  the  mean  while,  that  if  I  was  deprived  of  her 
presence,  so  also  were  you  ;  and  jealousy  with  me  was  a  far 
more  intolerable  and  engrossing  passion  than  the  very  love 
from  which  it  sprung.  So  time  passed  on — you  affected  to 
have  conquered  your  attachment  ;  you  affected  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  levity,  and  the  idlest  pursuits  of  worldly  men.  I  saw 
deeper  into  your  heart.  For  the  moment  I  entertained  tlie 
passion  of  love  in  my  own  breast,  my  eyes  became  gifted  with 
a  second  vision  to  penetrate  the  most  mysterious  and  hoarded 
secrets  in  the  love  of  others. 

"  Two  circumstances  of  importance  happened  before  you 
left  Devereux  Court  for  London  ;  the  one  was  the  introduc- 
tion to  your  service  of  Jean  Desmarais,  the  second  was  your 
breach  with  Montreuil.  I  speak  now  of  the  first.  A  very  early 
friend  did  the  priest  possess,  born  in  the  same  village  as  him-, 
self,  and  in  the  same  rank  of  life  ;  he  had  received  a  good  edu- 
cation, and  possessed  natural  genius.  At  a  time  when,  from 
some  fraud  in  a  situation  of  trust  which  he  had  held  in  a  French 
nobleman's  family,  he  was  in  destitute  and  desperate  circum- 
stances, it  occurred  to  Montreuil  to  provide  for  him  by  plac- 
ing him  in  our  family.  Some  accidental  and  frivolous  remark 
of  yours,  which  I  had  repeated  in  my  correspondence  with  Mon- 
treuil, as  illustrative  of  your  manner,  and  your  affected  pur- 
suits at  that  time,  presented  an  opportunity  to  a,  plan  before 
conceived.  Desmarais  came  to  England  in  a  smuggler's  ves- 
sel, presented  himself  to  you  as  a  servant,  and  was  accepted. 
In  this  plan  Montreuil  had  two  views — first,  that  of  securing 
Desmarais  a  place  in  England^  tolerably  profitable  to  himself, 
and  convenient  for  any  plot  or  scheme  which  Montreuil  might, 
require  of  him  in  this  country  ;  secondly,  that  of  setting  a  per-l'. 
petual  and  most  adroit  spy  upon  all  your  motions. 

"As  to  the  second  occurrence  to  which  I  have  referred, viz., 
your  breach  with  Montreuil — " 

Here  Aubrey,  with  the  same  terrible  distinctness  which  had 
characterized  his  previous  details,  and  which  shed  a  double 
horror  over  the  contrast  of  the  darker  and  more  frantic  pas- 
sages in  the  manuscript^  related  vyrhat  the  reader  will  remember ; 


354  DEVEREUX. 

Oswald  had  narrated  before,  respecting  the  letterhe  had  brought 
from  Madame  de  Balzac.  It  seems  that  Montreuil's  abrupt 
appearance  in  the  hall  had  been  caused  by  Desmarais,  who  had 
recognized  Oswald,  on  his  dismounting  at  the  gate,  and  had 
previously  known  that  he  was  in  the  employment  of  the  Jan- 
senistical  intriguante,  "Madame  de  Balzac. 

Aubrey  proceeded  then  to  say  that  Wontreuil,  invested  with 
far  more  direct  authority  and  power  than  he  had  been  hitherto, 
in  the  projects  of  that  wise  order  whose  doctrines  he  had  so 
darkly  perverted,  repaired  to  London  ;  and  that,  soon  after  my 
departure  for  the  same  place,  Gerald  and  Aubrey  left  Devereux 
Court  in  company  with  each  other  ;  but  Gerald,  whom  very- 
trifling  things  diverted  from  any  project,  however  important, 
returned  to  Devereux  Court,  to  accomplish  the  prosecution  of 
some  rustic  amour,  without  even  reaching  London.  Aubrey, 
on  the  contrary,  had  proceeded  to  the  metropolis,  sought  the 
suburb  in  which  Alvarez  lived,  procured,  in  order  to  avoid  any 
probable  chance  of  meeting  me,  a  lodging  in  the  same  obscure 
quarter,  and  had  renewed  his  suit  to  Isora.  The  reader  is' 
already  in  possession  of  the  ill  success  which  attended  it.  Au- 
brey had  at  last  confessed  his  real  name  to  the  father.  The 
Spaniard  was  dazzled  by  the  prospect  of  so  honorable  an  alli- 
ance for  his  daughter.  From  both  came  Isora's  persecution, 
but  in  both  was  it  resisted.  Passing  over  passages  in  the  man- 
uscript of  the  most  stormy  incoherence  and  the  most  gloomy 
passion,  I  come  to  what  follows  :  , 

"  I  learned  then,  from  Desmarais,  that  you  had  taken  away 
her  and  the  dying  father ;  that  you  had  placed  them  in  a  safe 
and  honorable  home.  That  man,  so  implicitly  the  creature  of 
Montreuil,  or  rather  of  his  own  interest,  with  which  Montreuil 
was  identified,  was  easily  induced  to  betray  you  also  to  me— - 
me  whom  he  imagined,  moreover,  utterly  the  tool  of  the  priest, 
and  of  whose  torturing  interest  in  this  peculiar  disclosure  he 
was  not  at  that  time  aware.  I  visited  Isora  in  her  new  abode, 
and  again  and  again  she  trembled  beneath  my  rage.  Then,  for 
the  second  time,  I  attempted  force.  Ha !  ha  I  Morton  \  \ 
think  I  see  you  now  ! — I  think  I  hear  your  muttered  curse ! 
Curse  on  !  When  you  read  this  I  shall  be  beyond  your  ven- 
geance— beyond  human  power.  And  yet  I  think  if  I  were  mere 
clay — if  I  were  the  mere  senseless  heap  of  ashes  that  the  grave 
covers — if  I  were  not  the  thing  that  must  live  forever  and 
forever,  far  away  in  unimagined  worlds,  where  nought  that 
has  earth's  life  can  come — I  should  tremble  beneath  the 
sod  as  your  foot  pressed,  and  your  execration  rung  over  it.     A 


DEVEREUX.  355 

second  time  I  attempted  force — a  second  time  I  was  repulsed 
by  the  same  means — by  a  woman's  hand  and  a  woman's  dagger. 
But  I  knew  that  I  had  one  hold  '^ver  Isora  from  which,  while 
she  loved  you,  I  could  never  be  driven  :  I  knew  that  by  threat- 
ening your  life,  I  could  command  her  will,  and  terrify  her  into 
compliance  with  my  own.  I  made  her  reiterate  her  vow  of 
concealment ;  and  I  discovered,  by  some  words  dropping  from 
her  fear,  that  she  believed  you  already  suspected  me,  and  had 
been  withheld,  by  her  entreaties^  from  seeking  me  out.  I 
questioned  her  more,  and  soon  perceived  that  it  was  (as  indeed 
I  knew  before)  Gerald  whom  you  suspected,  not  me  ;  but  I  did 
not  tell  this  to  Isora.  I  suffered  her  to  cherish  a  mistake  profi- 
table to  ray  disguise ;  but  I  saw  at  once  that  it  might  betray 
me,  if  you  ever  met  and  conferred  at  length  with  Gerald  upon 
this  point ;  and  I  exacted  from  Isora  a  pledge  that  she  would 
effectually  and  forever  bind  you  not  to  breathe  a  single  sus- 
picion to  him.  When  I  had  left  the  room,  I  returned  once 
more  to  warn  her  against  uniting  herself  with  you.  Wretch, 
selfish,  accursed  wretch  that  you  were,  why  did  you  suffer  her 
to  transgress  that  warning  ? 

'*!  fled  from  the  house,  as  a  fiend  flies  from  a  being  whom 
he  has  possessed.  I  returned  at  night  to  look  up  at  the  win- 
dow, and  linger  by  the  door,  and  keep  watch  beside  the  home 
which  held  Isora.  Such,  in  her  former  abode,  had  been  my 
nightly  wont.  I  had  no  evil  thought  nor  foul  intent  in  this 
customary  vigil — no,  not  one  !  Strangely  enough,  with  the 
tempestuous  and  overwhelming  emotions  which  constituted  the 
greater  part  of  my  love,  was  mingled, — though  subdued  and 
latent — a  stream  of  the  softest,  yea,  I  might  add^  almost  of  the 
holiest  tenderness.  Often  after  one  of  those  outpourings  pf 
rage,  and  menace,  and  despair,  I  would  fly  to  some  quiet  spot, 
and  weep,  till  all  the  hardness  of  my  heart  was  wept  away. 
And  often  in  those  nightly  vigils  I  would  pause  by  the  door  and 
murmur, '  This  shelter,  denied  not  to  the  beggar  and  the  beggar's 
child,  this  would  you  deny  to  me,  if  you  could  dream  that  I  was 
so  near  you.  And  yet,  had  you  loved  me,  instead  of  lavishing 
upon  me  all  your  hatred  and  your  contempt-^had  you  loved 
me,  I  would  have  served  and  worshipped  you  as  man  knows 
not  worship  or  service.  You  shudder  at  my  vehemence  now — 
I  could  not  then  have  breathed  a  whisper  to  wound  you.  You 
tremble  now  at  the  fierceness  of  my  breast — you  would  then 
rather  have  marvelled  at  its  softness.' 

"  I  was  already  at  my  old  watch  when  you  encountered  me — 
you  addressed  me,  I  answered  not — you  approached  me,  and  I 


356  DEVEREUX. 

fled.  Fled — there — there  was  the  shame,  and  the  sting  of  my 
•sentiments  towards  you.  I  am  not  naturally  afraid  of  danger, 
though  my  nerves  are  sometimes  weak,  and  have  sometimes 
shrunk  from  it.  I  have  known  something  of  peril  in  late  years, 
when  my  frame  has  been  bowed  and  broken — peril  by  storms 
at  sea,  and  the  knives  of  robbers  upon  land — and  I  have  looked 
upon  it  with  a  quiet  eye.  But  you,  Morton  Devereux,  you  I 
always  feared.  I  had  seen  from  your  childhood  others,  whose 
nature  was  far  stronger  than  mine,  yield  and  recoil  at  yours — I 
had  seen  the  giant  and  bold  strength  of  Gerald  quail  before 
your  bent  brow — I  had  seen  even  the  hardy  pride  of  Montreuil 
baffled  by  your  curled  lip,  and  the  stern  sarcasm  of  your 
glance — I  had  seen  you,  too,  in  your  wild  moments  of  ungoverned 
rage,  and  I  knew  that  if  earth  held  one  whose  passions  were 
fiercer  than  my  own,  it  was  you.  But  your  passions  were  sus- 
tained even  in  their  fiercest  excess — your  passions  were  the 
mere  weapons  of  your  mind— my  passions  were  the  torturers  and 
the  tyrants  of  mine.  Your  passions  seconded  your  will — mine 
blinded  and  overwhelmed  it.  From  my  infancy,  even  while  I 
loved  you  most,  you  awed  me  ;  and  years,  in  deepening  the 
impression,  had  made  it  indelible.  I  could  not  confront  the 
thought  of  your  knowing  all,  and  of  meeting  you  after  that 
knowledge.  And  this  fear,  while  it  unnerved  me  at  some  mo- 
ments, at  others  only  maddened  my  ferocity  the  more  by  the 
stings  of  shame  and  self- contempt. 

"  I  fled  from  you — you  pursued — you  gained  upon  me — you 
remember  now  how  1  was  preserved.  I  dashed  through  the 
inebriated  revellers  who  obstructed  your  path,  and  reached  my 
own  lodging,  which  was  close  at  hand  ;  for  the  same  day  on 
which  I  learned  Isora's  change  of  residence  I  changed  my  own 
in  order  to  be  near  it.  Did  I  feel  joy  for  my  escape  ?  No — I 
could  have  gnawed  the  very  flesh  from  my  bones  in  the  agony 
of  my  shame.  '  I  could  brave,'  I  said  ;  *  I  could  threat — I  could 
offer  violence  to  the  woman  who  rejected  me,  and  yet  I  could 
not  face  the  rival  for  whom  I  am  scorned  ! '  At  that  moment  a 
resolution  flashed  across  my  mind,  exactly  as  if  a  train  of  living 
fire  had  been  driven  before  it.  Morton,  I  resolved  to  murder 
you,  and  in  that  very  hour  !  A  pistol  lay  on  my  table — I  took 
it,  concealed  it  about  my  person,  and  repaired  to  the  shelter  of 
a  large  portico,  beside  which  I  knew  that  you  must  pass  to  your 
own  home  in  the  same  street.  Scarcely  three  minutes  had 
elapsed  between  the  reaching  my  house  and  the  leaving  it  on 
this  errand.  I  knew,  for  I  had  heard  swords  clash,  that  you 
would  be  detained  some  time  in  the  street  by  the  rioters — I 


DEVEREUX.  357 

thought  it  probable  also  that  you  might  still  continue  the  search 
for  me  ;  and  I  knew  even  that,  had  you  hastened  at  once  to 
your  home,  you  could  scarcely  have  reached  it  before  I  reached 
my  shelter.  I  hurried  on — I  arrived  at  the  spot — I  screened 
myself  and  awaited  your  coming.  You  came,  borne  in  the 
arms  of  two  men — others  followed  in  the  rear — I  saw  your  face 
destitute  of  the  hue  and  aspect  of  life,  and  your  clothes  stream- 
ing with  blood.  1  was  horror-stricken.  I  joined  the  crowd — ■ 
I  learnt  that  you  had  been  stabbed,  and  it  was  feared  mortally. 

"  I  did  not  return  home — no,  I  went  into  the  fields,  and  lay 
out  all  night,  and  lifted  up  my  heart  to  God,  and  wept  aloud, 
and  peace  fell  upon  me — at  least,  what  was  peace  compared  to 
the  tempestuous  darkness  which  had  before  reigned  in  my 
breast.  The  sight  of  you,  bleeding  and  insensible — you,  against 
whom  I  had  harbored  a  fratricide's  purpose — had  stricken,  as 
it  were,  the  weapon  from  my  hand,  and  the  madness  from  my 
mind.  I  shuddered  at  what  I  had  escaped — I  blessed  God  for 
my  deliverance — and  with  the  gratitude  and  the  awe  came 
repentance — and  repentance  brought  a  resolution  to  fly,  since 
I  could  not  wrestle  with  my  mighty  and  dread  temptation  : 
the  moment  that  resolution  was  formed,  it  was  as  if  an  incubus 
were  taken  from  my  breast.  Even  the  next  morning  I  did  not 
return  home — my  anxiety  for  you  was  such  that  I  forgot  all 
caution — I  went  to  your  house  myself — I  saw  one  of  your  ser- 
vants to  whom  I  was  personally  unknown.  I  inquired  respect- 
ing you,  and  learnt  that  your  wound  had  not  been  mortal,  and 
that  the  servant  had  overheard  one  of  the  medical  attendants 
say  you  were  not  even  in  danger.  . 

"At  this  news  I  felt  the  serpent  stir  again  within  me,  but  I 
resolved  to  crush  it  at  the  first — I  would  not  even  expose  myself 
to  the  temptation  of  passing  by  Isora's  house — I  went  straight 
in  search  of  my  horse — I  mounted,  and  fled  resolutely  from  the 
scene  of  my  soul's  peril.  *  I  will  go,'  I  said,  '  to  the  home  of 
our  childhood — I  will  surround  myself  by  the  mute  tokens  of 
the  early  love  which  my  brother  bore  me — 1  will  think — while 
penance  and  prayer  cleanse  my  soul  from  its  black  guilt — I  will 
think  that  I  am  also  making  a  sacrifice  to  that  brother.' 

"  I  returned  then  to  Devereux  Court,  and  I  resolved  to  forego 
all  hope — all  persecution — of  Isora  !  My  brother — my  brother, 
my  heart  yearns  to  you  at  this  moment,  even  though  years  and 
distance,  and  above  all,  my  own  crimes,  place  a  gulf  between  us 
which  I  may  never  pass — it  yearns  to  you  when  I  think  of  those 
quiet  shades,  and  the  scenes  where,  pure  and  unsullied,  we 
wandered  together,  when  life  was  all  verdure  and  freshness,  and 


358  DEVEREUX. 

•wc  dreamt  not  of  what  was  to  come  !  If  even  now  my  heart 
yearns  to  you,  Morton,  when  I  think  of  that  home  and  those 
days,  believe  that  it  had  some  softness  and  some  mercy  for  you 
then.  Yes,  I  repeat,  I  resolved  to  subdue  my  own  emotions, 
and  interpose  no  longer  between  Isora  and  yourself.  Full  of 
this  determination,  and  utterly  melted  towards  you,  I  wrote  you 
a  long  letter ;  such  as  we  would  have  written  to  each  other  in 
our  first  youth.  Two  days  after  that  letter,  all  my  new  purposes 
were  swept  away,  and  the  whole  soil  of  evil  thoughts  which  they 
had  covered,  not  destroyed,  rose  again  as  the  tide  flowed  from 
it,  black  and  rugged  as  before. 

"  The  very  night  on  which  I  had  writ  that  letter,  came  Mon- 
trcuil  secretly  to  my  chamber.  He  had  been  accustomed  to 
visit  Gerald  by  stealth,  and  at  sudden  moments  ;  and  there  was 
something  almost  supernatural  in  the  manner  in  which  he  seemed 
to  pass  from  place  to  place,  unmolested  and  unseen.  He  had 
now  conceived  a  villainous  project ;  and  he  had  visited  Devereux 
Court  in  order  to  ascertain  the  likelihood  of  its  success  ;  he  there 
found  that  it  was  necessary  to  involve  nie  in  his  scheme.  My 
uncle's  physician  had  said  privately  that  Sir  William  could  not 
live  many  months  longer.  Either  from  Gerald,  or  my  mother, 
Montreuil  learned  this  fact  ;  and  he  was  resolved,  if  possible, 
the  family  estates  should  not  glide  from  all  chance  of  his  in- 
fluence over  them  into  your  possession.  Montreuil  was  literally 
as  poor  as  the  rigid  law  of  his  order  enjoins  its  disciples  to  be ; 
all  his  schemes  required  the  disposal  of  large  sums,  and  in  no 
private  source  could  he  hope  for  such  pecuniary  power  as  he 
was  likely  to  find  in  the  coffers  of  any  member  of  our  family — 
yourself  only  excepted.  It  was  this  man's  boast,  to  want,  and 
yet  to  command,  all  things  ;  and  he  was  now  determined  that  if 
any  craft,  resolution,  or  guilt  could  occasion  the  transfer  of  my 
uncle's  wealth  from  you  to  Gerald,  or  to  myself,  it  should  not  be 
wanting. 

"  Now,  then,  he  found  the  advantage  of  the  dissensions  with 
each  other,  which  he  had  either  sown  or  mellowed  in  our 
breasts.  He  came  to  turn  those  wrathful  thoughts  which,  when 
he  last  saw  me,  I  had  expressed  towards  you,  to  the  favor  and 
success  of  his  design.  He  found  my  mind  strangely  altered,  but 
he  affected  to  applaud  the  change.  He  questioned  me  re. 
specting  my  uncle's  health,  and  I  told  him  what  had  really 
occurred,  viz.,  that  my  uncle  had,  on  the  preceding  day,  read 
over  to  me  some  part  of  a  will  which  he  had  just  made,  and  in 
which  the  vast  bulk  of  his  property  was  bequeathed  to  you. 
At  this  news  Montreuil  must  have  perceived  at  once  the  necessity 


DEVEREUX.  359 

of  winning  my  consent  to  his  project ;  for,  since  I  had  seen  the 
actual  testament,  no  fraudulent  transfer  of  the  property  therein 
bequeathed  could  take  place  without  my  knowledge  that  some 
fraud  had  been  recurred  to.  Montreuil  knew  me  well — he  knew 
that  avarice,  that  pleasure,  that  ambition,  were  powerless  words 
with  me,  producing  no  effect  and  affording  no  temptation  ;  but  he 
knew  that  passion,  jealousy,  spiritual  terrors,  were  the  springs  that 
moved  every  part  arid  nerve  of  my  moral  being.  The  two  former 
then  he  now  put  into  action — the  last  he  held  back  in  reserve. 
He  spoke  to  me  no  further  upon  the  subject  he  had  then  at 
heart ;  not  a  word  further  on  the  disposition  of  the  estates — he 
spoke  to  me  only  of  Isora  and  of  you  ;  he  aroused,  by  hint 
and  insinuation,  the  new  sleep  into  which  all  those  emotions^ 
the  furies  of  the  heart — had  been  for  a  moment  lulled.  He 
told  me  he  had  lately  seen  Isora — he  dwelt  glowingly  on  her 
beauty — he  commended  my  heroism  in  resigning  her  to  a  brother 
whose  love  for  her  was  little  in  comparison  to  mine — who  had, 
in  reality,  neverloved  me — whose  jests  and  irony  had  been  levelled 
no  less  at  myself  than  at  others.  He  painted  your  person 
and  your  mind,  in  contrast  to  my  own,  in  colors  so  covertly 
depreciating  as  to  irritate,  more  and  more,  that  vanity  with  which 
jealousy  is  so  woven,  and  from  which,  perhaps  (a  Titan  son  of  so 
feeble  a  parent),  it  is  born.  He  hung  lingeringly  over  all  the 
treasure  that  you  would  enjoy,  and  that  I — I,  the  first  discoverer, 
had  so  nobly  and  so  generously  relinquished. 

"  *  Relinquished  ! '  I  cried,  '  no,  I  was  driven  from  it,  I  left 
it  not  while  a  hope  of  possessing  it  remained.'  The  priest 
affected  astonishment,  '  How  !  was  I  sure  of  that  ?  I  had,  it 
is  true,  wooed  Isora;  but  would  she,  even  if  she  had  felt  no 
preference  for  Morton,  would  she  have  surrendered  the  heir 
to  a  princely  wealth  for  the  humble  love  of  the  younger  son  ? 
I  did  not  know  women  ;  with  them  all  love  was  either  wantonness, 
custom,  or  pride — it  was  the  last  principle  that  swayed  Isora. 
Had  I  sought  to  enlist  it  on  my  side?  Not  at  all.  Again,  I 
had  only  striven  to  detach  Isora  trorn  Morton  ;  had  I  ever 
attempted  the  much  easier  task  of  detaching  Morton  from  Isora? 
No,  never';  and  Montreuil  repeated  his  panegyric  on  my  gene- 
rous surrender  of  my  rights.  I  interrupted  him  :  '  I  had  not 
surrendered — I  never  would  surrender  while  a  hope  remained. 
But  where  was  that  hope,  and  how  was  it  to  be  realized?' 
After  much  artful  prelude,  the  priest  explained.  He  proposed 
to  use  every  means  to  array  against  your  union  with  Isora,  all 
motives  of  ambition,  interest,  and  aggrandizement.  *  I  know 
Morton's  character,'  said  he,  '  to  its  very  depths.     His  chief 


366  t>EVEREUX» 

virtue  honor — his  chief  principle  is  ambition.  He  will  not 
attempt  to  win  this  girl  otherwise  than  by  marriage,  for  the  very 
reasons  that  would  induce  most  men  to  attempt  it,  viz.,  her  un- 
friended state,  her  poverty,  her  confidence  in  him,  and  her  love, 
or  that  semblance  of  love  which  he  believes  to  be  the  passion 
itself.  This  virtue — I  call  it  so,  though  it  is  none,  for  there  is 
no  virtue  out  of  religion — this  virtue,  then,  will  place  before 
him  only  two  plans  of  conduct,  either  to  marry  her  or  to  forsake 
her.  Now,  then  if  we  can  bring  his  ambition,  that  great  lever 
of  his  conduct,  in  opposition  to  the  first  alternative,  only  the 
last  remains  ;  I  say  that  we  can  employ  that  engine  in  your  be- 
half— leave  it  to  me,  and  I  will  do  so.  Then,  Aubrey,  in  the 
moment  of  her  pique,  her  resentment,  her  outraged  vanity,  at 
being  thus  left,  you  shall  appear  ;  not  as  you  have  hitherto 
done,  in  menace  and  terror,  but  soft,  subdued,  with  looks  all 
love — with  vows  all  penitence — vindicating  all  your  past  vehe- 
mence, by  the  excess  of  your  passion,  and  promising  all  future 
tenderness  by  the  influence  of  the  same  motive,  the  motive 
which  to  a  woman  pardons  every  error,  and  hallows  every  crime. 
Then  will  she  contrast  your  love  with  your  brother's — then 
will  the  scale  fall  from  her  eyes — then  will  she  see  what  hitherto 
she  has  been  blinded  to,  that  your  brother,  to  yourself,  is  a  satyr 
to  Hyperion — then  will  she  blush  and  falter,  and  hide  her  cheek 
in  your  bosom.' — '  Hold,  hold  !  '  I  cried  ;  *do  with  me  what 
you  will, — counsel,  and  I  will  act !'  " 

Here  again  the  manuscript  was  defaced  by  a  sudden  burst  of 
execration  upon  Montreuil,  followed  by  ravings  that  gradually 
blackened  into  the  most  gloomy  and  incoherent  outpourings  of 
madness  ;  at  length,  the  history  proceeded  : 

"You  wrote  to  ask  me  to  sound  our  uncle  on  the  subject  of 
your  intended  marriage.  Montreuil  drew  up  my  answer,  and 
I  constrained  myself,  despite  my  revived  hatred  to  you,  to 
transcribe  its  expressions  of  affection.  My  uncle  wrote  to  you 
also ;  and  we  strengthened  his  dislike  to  the  step  you  had  pro- 
posed, by  hints  from  myself,  disrespectful  to  Isora,  and  an 
anonymous  communication  dated  from  London,  and  to  the 
same  purport.  All  this  while  I  knew  not  that  Isora  had  been 
in  your  house  ;  your  answer  to  my  letter  seemed  to  imply  that 
you  would  not  disobey  my  uncle.  Montreuil,  who  was  still 
lurking  in  the  neighborhood,  and  who  at  night  privately  met 
or  sought  me,  affected  exultation  at  the  incipient  success  of 
his  advice.  He  pretended  to  receive  perpetual  intelligence  of 
your  motions  and  conduct,  and  he  informed  me  now  that  Isora 
had  come  to  your  house  on   heating  of  your  wound ;  that  you 


DEVEkEUX.  361 

had  not  (agreeably,  Montreuil  added  to  his  view  of  your  cha- 
racter) taken  advantage  of  her  indiscretion  ;  that  immediately 
on  receivingyour  uncle's  and  my  own  letters,  you  had  separated 
yourself  from  her;  and  that,  though  you  still  visited  her,  it 
was  apparently  with  a  view  of  breaking  off  all  connection  by 
gradual  and  gentle  steps ;  at  all  events,  you  had  taken  no 
measures  towards  marriage.  *  Now,  then,'  said  Montreuil,  'for 
one  finishing  stroke,  and  the  prize  is  yours.  Your  uncle  can- 
not, you  find,  live  long :  could  he  but  be  persuaded  to  leave 
his  property  to  Gerald  or  to  you,  with  only  a  trifling  legacy 
(comparatively  speaking)  to  Morton,  that  worldly-minded  and 
enterprising  person  would  be  utterly  prevented  from  marrying 
a  penniless  and  unknown  foreigner.  Nothing  but  his  own 
high  prospects,  so  utterly  above  the  necessity  of  fortune  in  a 
wife,  can  excuse  such  a  measure  now,  even  to  his  own  mind ; 
if,  therefore,  we  can  effect  this  transfer  of  property,  and  in  the 
mean  while  prevent  Morton  from  marrying,  your  rival  is  gone 
forever,  and  with  his  brilliant  advantages  of  wealth  will  also 
vanish  his  merits  in  the  eyes  of  Isora.  Do  not  be  startled  at 
this  thought ;  there  is  no  crime  in  it;  I,  your  confessor,  your 
tutor,  the  servant  of  the  church,  am  the  last  person  to  counsel, 
to  hint,  even,  at  what  is  criminal ;  but  the  end  sanctifies  all 
means.  By  transferring  this  vast  property,  you  do  not  only 
ensure  your  object,  but  you  advance  the  great  cause  of  Kings, 
the  Church,  and  of  the  Religion  which  presides  over  both. 
Wealth,  in  Morton's  possession,  will  be  useless  to  this  cause, 
perhaps  jjernicious  :  in  your  hands,  or  in  Gerald's,  it  will  be  of 
inestimable  service.  Wealth  produced  from  the  public  should 
be  applied  to  the  uses  of  the  public,  yea,  even  though  a  petty 
injury  to  one  individual  be  the  price.' 

"Thus,  and  in  this  manner,  did  Montreuil  prepare  my  mind 
for  the  step  he  meditated  ;  but  I  was  not  yet  ripe  for  it.  So 
inconsistent  is  guilt,  that  I  could  commit  murder — ^wrong — 
almost  all  villainy  that  passion  dictated,  but  I  was  struck  aghast 
by  the  thought  of  fraud.  Montreuil  perceived  that  I  was  not 
yet  wholly  his,  and  his  next  plan  was  to  remove  me  from  a  spot 
where  I  might  check  his  measures.  He  persuaded  me  to  travel 
for  a  few  weeks.  'On  your  return,' said  he, 'consider  Isora 
yours  ;  meanwhile,  let  change  of  scene  beguile  suspense.*  I 
was  passive  in  his  hands,  and  I  went  whither  he  directed. 

"  Let  me  be  brief  here  on  the  black  fraud  that  ensued. 
Among  the  other  arts  of  Jean  Desmarais,  was  that  of  copying 
exactly,  any  handwriting.  He  was  then  in  London,  in  your 
service  ;  Montreuil  sent  for  hini   to  come  to  the  neighborhood 


362  DEVEREUX. 

of  Devereux  Court.  Meanwhile,  the  priest  had  procured  from 
the  notary  who  had  drawn  up,  and  who  now  possessed,  the  will 
of  my  unsuspecting  uncle,  that  document.  The  notary  had 
been  long  known  to,  and  sometimes  politically  employed  by, 
Montreuil,  for  he  was  half-brother  to  that  Oswald,  whom  I  have 
before  mentioned  as  the  early  comrade  of  the  priest  and  Dcs- 
marais.  This  circumstance,  it  is  probable,  first  induced  Mon- 
treuil to  contemplate  the  plan  of  a  substituted  will.  Before 
Desmarais  arrived  in  order  to  copy  those  parts  of  the  will 
which  my  uncle's  humor  had  led  him  to  write  in  his  own  hand, 
you,  alarmed  by  a  letter  from  my  uncle,  came  to  the  Court, 
and  on  the  same  day  Sir  William  (taken  ill  the  preceding  even- 
ing) died.  Between  that  da,y  and  the  one  on  which  the  funeral 
occurred,  the  will  was  copied  by  Desmarais  ;  only  Gerald's 
name  was  substituted  for  yours,  and  the  forty  thousand  pounds 
left  to  him— a  sum  equal  to  that  bestowed  on  myself — was  cut 
down  into  a  legacy  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  to  you.  Less 
than  this,  Montreuil  dared  not  insert  as  the  bequest  to  you  ; 
and  it  is  possible  that  the  same  regard  to  probabilities  prevented 
all  mention  of  himself  in  the  substituted  will.  This  was  all  the 
alteration  made.  My  uncle's  writing  was  copied  exactly  ;  and, 
save  the  departure  from  his  apparent  intentions  in  your  favor, 
I  believe  not  a  particle  in  the  effected  fraud  was  calculated  to 
excite  suspicion.  Immediately  on  the  reading  of  the  will, 
Montreuil  repaired  to  me,  and  confessed  what  had  taken  place. 
"'Aubrey,'  he  said,  *  I  have  done  this  for  your  sake  partly  ; 
but  I  have  had  a  much  higher  end  in  view  than  even  your  hap- 
piness, or  my  affectionate  wishes  to  promote  it.  I  live  solely 
for  one  object — the  aggrandizement  of  that  holy  order  to  which 
I  belong  ;  the  schemes  of  that  order  are  devoted  only  to  the 
interests  of  Heaven,  and  by  serving  them,  I  serve  Heaven  itself. 
Aubrey,  child  of  my  adoption  and  of  my  earthly  hopes, 
those  schemes  require  carnal  instruments,  and  work,  even 
through  Mammon,  unto  the  goal  of  righteousness.  What  I 
have  done  is  just  before  God  and  man.  I  have  wrested 
a  weapon  from  the  hand  of  an  enemy,  and  placed  it  in 
the  hand  of  an  ally.  I  have  not  touched  one  atom  of  this 
wealth,  though,  with  the  same  ease  with  which  I  have  trans- 
ferred it  from  Morton  to  Gerald,  I  might  have  made  my  own 
private  fortune.  I  have  not  touched  one  atom  of  it ;  nor  for 
you,  whom  I  love  more  than  any  living  being,  have  I  done 
what  my  heart  dictated.  I  might  have  caused  the  inheritance 
to  pass  to  you.  I  have  not  done  so.  Why  ?  Because,  then, 
I  should  have  consulted  a  selfish  desire  at  the  expense  of  the  in- 


DEVEREUX.  363 

terests  of  mankind.  Gerald  is  fitter  to  be  the  tool  those  interests 
require  than  you  are.  Gerald  I  have  made  that  tool.  You,  too, 
I  have  spared  the  pangs  which  your  conscience,  so  peculiarly, 
so  morbidly  acute,  might  suffer  at  being  selected  as  tlie  instru- 
ment of  a  seeming  wrong  to  Morton.  All  required  of  you  is 
silence.  If  your  wants  ever  ask  more  than  your  legacy,  you 
have  as  1  have,  a  claim  to  that  wealth  which  your  pleasure  al- 
lows Gerald  to  possess.  Meanwhile,  let  us  secure  to  you  that 
treasure  dearer  to  you  than  gold.* 

"  If  Montreuil  did  not  quite  blind  me  by  speeches  of  this 
nature,  my  engrossing,  absorbing  passion  required  little  to  make 
it  cling  to  any  hope  of  its  fruition.  I  assented,  therefore, 
though  not  without  many  previous  struggles,  to  Montreuil's- 
project,  or  rather  to  its  concealment ;  nay,  I  wrote  some  time 
after,  at  his  desire,  and  his  dictation,  a  letter  to  you,  stating 
feigned  reasons  for  my  uncle's  alteration  of  former  inten- 
tions, and  exonerating  Gerald  from  all  connivance  at  that  al- 
teration, or  abetment  in  the  fraud  you  professed  that  it  was 
your  open  belief  had  been  committed.  This  was  due  to  Gerald  ; 
for  that  time,  and  for  aught  I  know,  at  the  present,  he  was  per- 
fectly unconscious  by  what  means  he  had  attained  his  fortune  ; 
he  believed  that  your  love  for  Isora  had  given  my  uncle  offence, 
and  hence  your  disinheritance  ;  and  Montreuil  took  effectual 
care  to  exasperate  him  against  you,  by  dwelling  on  the  malice 
which  your  suspicions  and  your  proceedings  against  him  so 
glaringly  testified.  Whether  Montreuil  really  thought  you 
would  give  over  all  intention  of  marrying  Isora  upon  your  reverse 
of  fortune,  which  is  likely  enough,  from  his  estimate  of  your 
character,  or  whether  he  only  wislied  by  any  means,  to  obtain 
my  acquiescence  in  a  measure  important  to  his  views,  I  know 
not,  but  he  never  left  me,  nor  ever  ceased  to  sustain  my 
fevered  and  unhallowed  hopes,  from  the  hour  in  which  he  first 
communicated  to  me  the  fraudulent  substitution  of  the  will,  till 
we  repaired  to  London.  This  we  did  not  do  so  long  as  he  could 
detain  me  in  the  country,  by  assurances  that  I  should  ruin 
all  by  appearing  before  Isora  until  you  had  entirely  deserted 
her. 

"  Morton,  hitherto  I  have  written  as  if  my  veins  were  filled 
with  water,  instead  of  the  raging  fire  that  flows  through  them 
until  it  reaches  my  brain,  and  there  it  stops,  and  eats  away  all 
things — even  memory,  that  once  seemed  eternal !  Now  I  feel 
as  I  approach  the  consummation  of — Ha — of  what — ay,  of 
what?  Brother  did  you  ever,  when  you  thought  yourself  quite 
alone — ^t  night — not  a  breath  stirring — did  you  ever  raise  yout 


3^4  DEVEREUX. 

eyes  and  see,  exactly  opposite  to  you,  a  devil ! — a  dread  tiling, 
that  moves  not,  speaks  not,  but  glares  upon  you  with  a  fixed, 
dead,  unrelenting  eye? — that  thing  is  before  me  now,  and  wit- 
nesses every  word  1  write.  But  it  deters  me  not !  no,  nor  terri- 
fies me.  I  have  said  that  I  would  fulfil  this  task,  and  1  have 
nearlydone  it ;  though  at  times  the  gray  cavern  yawned,  and 
I  saw  its  rugged  walls  stretch — stretch  away,  on  either  side, 
until  they  reached  hell ;  and  there  I  beheld — but  I  will  not 
tell  you,  till  we  meet  there  !     Now  I  am  calm  again — read  on  ! 

"  We  could  not  discover  Isora,  nor  her  home  ;  perhaps  the 
priest  took  care  that  it  should  be  so  ;  for,  at  that  time,  what 
with  his  devilish  whispers  and  my  own  heart,  I  often  scarcely 
knew  what  I  was  or  what  I  desired  ;  and  I  sat  for  hours 
and  gazed  upon  the  air,  and  it  seemed  so  soft  and  still 
that  I  longed  to  make  an  opening  in  my  forehead  that  it 
might  enter  there,  and  so  cool  and  quiet  the  dull,  throbbing 
anguish  that  lay  like  molten  lead  in  my  brain  ;  at  length  we 
found  the  house.  'To-morrow,'  said  the  Abbe,  and  he  shed 
tears  over  me — for  there  were  times  when  that  hard  man  did 
feel, — '  to-morrow,  my  child,  thou  shalt  see  her — but  be  soft 
and  calm.'  The  morrow  came  ;  but  Montreuil  was  pale,  paler 
than  I  had  ever  seen  him,  and  he  gazed  upon  me  and  said, 
'  Not  to-day,  my  son,  not  to-day  ;  she  has  gone  out,  and  will 
not  return  till  nightfall,'  My  brother,  the  evening  came,  and 
with  it  came  Desmarais  ;  he  came  in  terror  and  alarm.  '  The 
villain  Oswald,'  he  said,  '  has  betrayed  all ' ;  he  drew  me  aside 
and  told  me  so.  '  Harkye,  Jean,'  he  whispered,  'harkye — your 
master  has  my  brother's  written  confession,  and  the  real  will ; 
but  1  have  provided  for  your  safet)',  and  if  he  pleases  it,  for 
Montreuil's.  The  packet  is  not  to  be  opened  till  the  seventh  day 
— fly  before  then.'  '  But  I  know,'  added  Desmarais,  'where  the 
packet  is  placed';  and  he  took  Montreuil  aside, and  for  awhile 
I  heard  not  what  they  said  ;  but  I  did  overhear  Desmarais  at 
last,  and  learnt  that  it  was  your  bridal  tiight. 

"What  felt  I  then  ?  The  same  tempestuous  fury — the  same 
whirlwind  and  storm  of  heart  that  I  had  felt  before,  at  the 
mere  anticipation  of  such  an  event  ?  No  ;  I  felt  a  bright  ray 
of  joy  flash  through  me.  Yes,  joy  :  but  it  was  that  joy  which  a 
conqueror  feels  when  he  knows  his  mortal  foe  is  in  his  power,  and 
when  he  dooms  that  enemy  to  death.  "J'hey  shall  perish — and 
on  this  night,'  I  said  inly.  '  I  have  sworn  it — I  swore  to  Isora 
that  the  bridal  couch  should  be  stained  with  blood,  and  I  will 
keep  the  oath  I '  I  approached  the  pair- — they  were  discussing 
the  means  for  obtaining  the  packet.     Montreuil  urged  Desmar- 


DEVEREUX,  365 

ais  to  purloin  it  from  the  place  where  you  had  deposited  it,  and 
then  to  abscond  ;  buttothis  plan  Desmarais  was  vehemently  op- 
posed. He  insisted  that  there  would  be  no  possible  chance  of  liis 
escape  from  a  search  so  scrutinizing  as  that  which  would  nec- 
essarily ensue,  and  he  was  evidently  resolved  not  alone  to  incur 
the  danger  of  the  theft.  *  The  Count,'  said  he,  '  saw  that  I  was 
present  when  he  put  away  the  packet.  Suspicion  will  fall  sole- 
ly on  me.  Whither  should  I  fly  ?  No — I  will  serve  you  with 
my  talents,  Irut  not  with  my  life.'  '  Wretch  !  '  said  Montreuil, 
'if  that  packet  is  opened,  thy  life  is  already  gone.' — '  Yes,'  said 
Desmarais  ;  *  but  we  may  yet  purloin  the  papers,  and  throw 
the  guilt  upon  some  other  quarter.  What  if  I  admit  you  when 
the  Count  is  abroad  ?  What  if  you  steal  the  packet,  and  carry 
away  other  articles  of  more  seeming  value  ?  What,  too,  if  you 
wound  me  in  the  arm  or  the  breast,  and  I  coin  some  terrible  tale 
of  robbers,  and  of  my  resistance,  could  we  not  manage  then  to 
throw  suspicion  upon  common  housebreakers — nay,  could  we 
not  throw  it  upon  Oswald  himself  }  Let  us  silence  that  traitor 
by  death,  and  who  shall  contradict  our  tale  ?  No  danger  shall 
attend  this  plan.  I  will  give  you  the  key  of  the  escritoire — 
the  theft  will  not  be  the  work  of  a  moment,'  Montreuil  at 
first  demurred  to  this  proposal,  but  Desmarais  was,  I  repeat, 
resolved  not  to  incur  the  danger  of  the  theft  alone  ;  the  stake 
was  great,  and  it  was  not  Montreuil's  nature  to  shrink  from  peril, 
when  once  it  became  necessary  to  confront  it.  '  Be  it  so,'  he 
said  at  last,  '  though  the  scheme  is  full  of  difficulty  and  dan- 
ger :  be  it  so.  We  have  not  a  day  to  lose.  To-morrow  the 
Count  will  place  the  document  in  some  place  of  greater  safety, 
and  unknown  to  us — the  deed  shall  be  done  to-night.  Procure 
the  key  of  the  escritoire — admit  me  this  night — 1  will  steal  dis- 
guised into  the  chamber — I  will  commit  the  act  from  which 
you,  who  alone  could  commit  it  with  safety,  shrink.  Instruct 
me  exactly  as  to  the  place  where  the  articles  you  speak  of  are 
placed  :  I  will  abstract  them  also.  See  that,  if  the  Count 
wake,  he  has  no  weapon  at  hand.  Wound  yourself,  as  you  say, 
in  some  place  not  dangerous  to  life,  and  to-morrow,  or  within 
an  hour  after  my  escape,  tell  what  tale  you  will.  I  will  go, 
meanwhile,  at  once  to  Oswald  ;  I  will  either  bribe  his  silence — 
ay,  and  his  immediate  absence  from  England — or  he  shall  die. 
A  death  that  secures  our  own  self-preservation  is  excusable  in 
the  reading  of  all  law,  divine,  or  human  ! ' 

"I  heard,  but  they  deemed  me  insensible:  they  had  already 
begun  to  grow  unheeding  of  my  presence.  Montreuil  saw  me, 
^nd  his  countenance  grew  soft,     '  I  know  all,'  I  said,  as  I  caught 


366  DEVEREUX. 

his  eye  which  looked  on  me  in  pity,  '  I  know  all — they  are 
married.  Enough  !  with  all  my  hope  ceases  my  love  :  care  not 
for  me.' 

"  Montreuil  embraced  and  spoke  tome  in  kindness  and  in 
praise.  He  assured  me  that  you  had  kept  your  wedding  so  close 
a  secret  that  he  knew  it  not,  nor  did  even  Desmarais,  till  the 
evening  before — till  after  he  had  proposed  that  I  should  visit 
Isora  that  very  day,  I  know  not,  I  care  not,  whether  he  was 
sincere  in  this.  In  whatever  way  one  line  in  the  dread  scroll 
of  his  conduct  be  read,  the  scroll  was  written  in  guile,  and  in 
blood  was  it  sealed.  I  appeared  not  to  notice  Montreuil  or  hig 
accomplice  any  more.  The  latter  left  the  house  first.  Mon- 
treuil stole  forth,  as  he  thought,  unobserved ;  he  was  masked, 
and  in  complete  disguise.  I,  too,  went  forth.  I  hastened  to  a 
shop  where  such  things  were  procured  ;  I  purchased  a  mask 
and  cloak  similar  to  the  priest's.  I  had  heard  Montreuil  agree 
with  Desmarais  that  the  door  of  the  house  should  be  left  ajar, 
in  order  to  give  greater  facility  to  the  escape  of  the  former ;  I 
repaired  to  the  house  in  time  to  see  Montreuil  enter  it.  A 
strange,  sharp  sort  of  cunning,  which  I  had  never  known  before, 
ran  through  the  dark  confusion  of  my  mind.  I  waited  for  a 
minute,  till  it  was  likely  that  Montreuil  had  gained  your  cham- 
ber ;  I  then  pushed  open  the  door,  and  ascended  the  stairs.  I 
met  ho  one— the  moonlight  fell  around  me,  and  its  rays  seemed 
to  me  like  ghosts,  pale  and  shrouded,  and  gazing  upon  me  with 
wan  and  lustreless  eyes.  I  know  not  how  I  found  your  cham- 
ber, but  it  was  the  only  one  I  entered.  I  stood  in  the  same 
room  with  Isora  and  yourself — ye  lay  in  sleep — Isora's  face — 
Oh,  God  !  I  know  no  more — no  more  of  that  night  of  horror — 
save  that  1  fled  from  the  house  reeking  with  blood — a  murderer — 
and  the  murderer  of  Isora  ! 

*'  Then  came  a  long,  long  dream.  I  was  in  a  sea  of  blood — 
blood-red  was  the  sky,  and  one  still,  solitary  star  that  gleamed 
far  away  with  a  sickly  and  wan  light,  was  the  only  spot,  above 
and  around,  which  was  not  of  the  same  intolerable  dye.  And  I 
thought  my  eyelids  were  cut  off,  as  those  of  the  Roman  consul 
are  said  to  have  been,  and  I  had  nothing  to  shield  my  eyes  from 
that  crimson  light,  and  the  rolling  waters  of  that  unnatural  sea. 
And  the  red  air  burnt  through  my  eyes  into  my  brain,  and  then 
that  also,  methought,  became  blood ;  and  all  memory — all  imdges 
of  memory — all  idea^ — wore  a  material  shape,  and  a  material 
color,  and  were  blood,  too.  Everything  was  unutterably  silent, 
except  when  my  own  shrieks  rang  over  the  shoreless  ocean,  as 
I  drifted  on.     At  last  I  fixed  my  eyes — the  eyes  which  I  might 


t>EVEREUX.  367 

never  close — upon  that  pale  and  single  star  ;  and  after  I  had 
gazed  a  little  while,  the  star  seemed  to  change  slowly — until  it 
grew  like  the  pale  face  of  that  murdered  girl,  and  then  it  van- 
ished utterly,  and  all  was  blood  ! 

"This  vision  was  sometimes  broken — sometimes  varied  by 
others — but  it  always  returned  ;  and  when  at  last  I  completely 
woke  from  it,  I  was  in  Italy,  in  a  convent.  Montreuil  had  lost 
no  time  in  removing  me  from  England.  But  once,  shortly  after 
my  recovery,  for  I  was  mad  for  many  months,  he  visited  me, 
and  he  saw  what  a  wreck  I  had  become.  He  pitied  me  ;  and 
when  I  told  him  I  longed  above  all  things  for  liberty — for  the 
green  earth  and  the  fresh  air,  and  a  removal  from  that  gloomy 
abode,  he  opened  the  convent  gates,  and  blessed  me  and  bade 
me  go  forth.  'All  I  require  of  you,'  said  he,  'is  a  promise.  If 
it  be  understood  that  you  live,  you  will  be  persecuted  by  in- 
quiries and  questions,  which  will  terminate  in  a  conviction  of 
your  crime :  let  it  therefore  be  reported  in  England  that  you 
are  dead.  Consent  to  the  report,  and  promise  never  to  quit 
Italy,  nor  to  see  Morton  Devereux.' 

"I  promised — and  that  promise  I  have  kept  ;  but  I  promised 
not  that  I  would  never  reveal  to  you,  in  writing,  the  black  tale 
which  I  have  now  recorded.  May  it  reach  you.  There  is  one 
in  this  vicinity  who  has  undertaken  to  bear  it  to  you  ;  he  says 
he  has  known  misery — and  when  he  said  so,  his  voice  sounded 
in  my  ear  like  yours ;  and  I  looked  upon  him,  and  thought  his 
features  were  cast  somewhat  in  the  same  mould  as  your  own — 
so  I  have  trusted  him.  I  have  now  told  all.  I  have  wrenched 
the  secret  from  my  heart  in  agony  and  with  fear.  I  have  told 
all — though  things  which  I  believe  are  fiends,  have  started  forth 
from  the  grim  walls  around  to  forbid  it — though  dark  wings 
have  swept  by  me,  and  talons,  as  of  a  bird,  have  attempted  to 
tear  away  the  paper  on  which  I  write — though  eyes,  whose  light 
was  never  drunk  from  earth,  have  glared  on  me — and  mocking 
voices  and  horrible  laughter  have  made  my  flesh  creep,  and 
thrilled  through  the  marrow  of  my  bones — I  have  told  all — I 
have  finished  my  last  labor  in  this  world,  and  I  will  now  lie 
down  and  die. 

"Aubrey  Devereux." 

The  paper  dropped  from  my  hands.  Whatever  I  had  felt  in 
reading  it,  I  had  not  flinched  once  from  the  task.  From  the 
first  word  even  to  the  last,  I  had  gone  through  the  dreadful 
tale,  nor  uttered  a  syllable,  nor  moved  a  limb.  And  now  as  X 
lose,  though  I  had   found  the  being  who  to  me  had  withered 


^6^  CEVEREUX. 

this  world  into  one  impassable  desert — though  I  had  found  the 
unrelenting  foe  and  the  escaped  murderer  of  Isora — the  object 
of  the  execration  and  vindictiveness  of  years — not  one  single 
throb  of  wrath — not  one  single  sentiment  f)f  vengeance,  was  in 
my  breast.  I  passed  at  once  to  the  bedside  of  my  brother  ;  he 
was  awake,  but  still  and  calm — the  calm  and  stillness  of  ex- 
hausted nature.  I  knelt  down  quietly  beside  him.  I  took  his 
hand,  and  I  shrank  not  from  the  touch,  though  by  that  hand 
the  only  woman  I  ever  loved  had  perished. 

"  Look  up,  Aubrey ! "  said  I,  struggling  with  tears  which, 
despite  of  my  most  earnest  effort,  came  over  me  ;  "  look  up,  all  is 
forgiven.  VVho  on  earth  shall  withhold  pardon  from  a  crime 
which  on  earth  has  been  so  awfully  punished  ?  Look  up  Au- 
brey ;  I  am  your  brother,  and  I  forgive  you.  You  are  right — 
my  cliildhood  was  harsh  and  fierce;  and  had  you  feared  me 
less  you  might  have  confided  in  me,  and  you  would  not  have 
sinned  and  suffered  as  you  have  done  now.  Fear  me  no  longer. 
Look  up,  Aubrey,  it  is  Morton  who  calls  you.  Why  do  you  not 
speak  ?  My  brother,  my  brother — a  word,  a  single  word,  I  im- 
plore you." 

For  one  moment  did  Aubrey  raise  his  eyes — one  moment 
did  he  meet  mine.  His  lips  quivered  wildly — I  heard  the 
death-rattle — he  sunk  back,  and  his  hand  dropped  from  my 
clasp.  My  words  had  snapped  asunder  the  last  chord  of  life. 
Merciful  Heaven  !  I  thank  thee  that  those  words  were  the 
words  of  pardon ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

In  which  the  History  makes  a  great  Stride  towards  the  final  Catastrophe.— 
The  Return  to  England,  and  the  Visit  to  a  Devotee. 

At  night,  and  in  the  thrilling  forms  of  the  Catholic  ritual, 
was  Aubrey  Devereux  consigned  to  earth.  After  that  ceremony 
I  could  linger  no  longer  in  the  vicinity  of  the  hermitage.  I 
took  leave  of  the  Abbot  and  richly  endowed  his  convent  in 
return  for  the  protection  it  had  afforded  to  the  anchorite  and 
the  masses  which  had  been  said  for  his  soul.  Before  I  left 
Anselmo,  I  questioned  him  if  any  friend  to  the  hermit  had  ever, 
during  his  seclusion,  held  any  communication  with  the  Abbot 
respecting  him.  Anselmo,  after  a  little  hesitation,  confessed 
that  a  man,  a  Frenchman,  seemingly  of  no  high  rank,  had 
several  times  visited  the  convent,  as  if  to  scrutinize  the  habits 
.and  life  of  the  anchorite;  he  had  declared  himself  commissioned 


I)EV£R£tJX.  369 

by  the  hermit's  relations  to  make  inquiry  of  him  from  time  to 
time  ;  but  he  had  given  the  Abbot  no  clue  to  discover  himself, 
though  Ansehno  had  especially  hinted  at  the  expediency  of 
being  acquainted  with  some  quarter  to  which  he  could  direct 
any  information  of  change  in  the  hermit's  habits  or  health. 
This  man  had  been  last  at  the  convent  about  two  months  before 
the  present  date  ;  but  one  of  the  brothers  declared  that  he- had 
seen  him  in  the  vicinity  of  the  well  on  the  very  day  on  which 
the  hermit  died.  The  description  of  this  stranger  was  essentially 
different  from  that  which  would  have  been  given  of  Montreuil, 
but  I  imagined  that,  if  not  the  Abbe  himself,  the  stranger  was 
one  in  his  confidence  or  his  employ. 

I  now  repaired  to  Rome,  where  I  made  the  most  extensive, 
though  guarded,  inquiries  after  Montreuil,  and  at  length  I 
learned  that  he  was  lying  concealed,  or  rather  unnoticed,  in 
England,  under  a  disguised  name  ;  having,  by  friends  or  by 
money,  obtained  therein  a  tacit  connivance,  though  not  an  open 
pardon.  No  sooner  did  I  learn  this  intelligence,  than  I  resolved 
forthwith  to  depart  to  that  country.  I  crossed  the  Alps- 
traversed  France — and  took  ship  at  Calais  for  Dover. 

Behold  me  then  upon  the  swift  seas  bent  upon  a  double 
purpose — reconciliation  with  a  brother  whom  I  had  wronged, 
and  vengeance — no  not  vengeance,  but  Justice  against  the 
criminal  I  had  discovered  !  No !  it  was  not  revenge — it  was 
no  infuriate,  no  unholy  desire  of  inflicting  punishment  upon  a 
personal  foe,  which  possessed  me — it  was  a  steady,  calm, 
unwavering  resolution,  to  obtain  justice  against  the  profound 
and  systematized  guilt  of  a  villain  who  had  been  the  bane  of 
all  who  had  come  within  his  contact,  that  nerved  my  arm  and 
engrossed  my  heart.  Bear  witness,  Heaven,  I  am  not  a  vindic- 
tive man  !  I  have,  it  is  true,  been  extreme  in  hatred  as  in  love ; 
but  I  have  ever  had  the  power  to  control  myself  from  yielding 
to  its  impulse.  When  the  full  persuasion  of  Gerald's  crime 
reigned  within  me,  I  had  thralled  my  emotion,  I  had  curbed  it 
within  the  circle  of  my  own  heart,  though  there,  thus  pent  and 
self-consuming,  it  was  an  agony  and  a  torture  ;  I  had  resisted 
the  voice  of  that  blood  which  cried  from  the  earth  against  a 
murderer,  and  which  had  consigned  the  solemn  charge  of 
justice  to  my  hands.  Year  after  year  I  had  nursed  an  unap- 
peased  desire;  nor  ever,  when  it  stung  the  most,  suffered  it  to 
become  an  actual  revenge.  I  had  knelt  in  tears  and  in  softness 
by  Aubrey's  bed — I  had  poured  forth  my  pardon  over  him — I 
had  felt,  while  I  did  so, — no,  not  so  much  sternness  as  would 
have  slain  a  worm.     By  his  hand  had  the  murtherous  stroke 


376  MVtREtJX. 

been  dealt — on  his  soul  was  the  crimson  stain  of  that  blood 
which  had  flowed  through  the  veins  of  the  gentlest  and  the 
most  innocent  of  God's  creatures — and  yet  the  blow  was  un- 
avenged and  the  crime  forgiven.  For  him  there  was  a  palliative, 
or  even  a  gloomy  but  an  unanswerable  excuse.  In  the  con- 
fession which  had  so  terribly  solved  the  mystery  of  my  life,  the 
seeds  of  that  curse,  which  had  grown  at  last  into  madness, 
might  be  discovered  even  in  the  first  dawn  of  Aubrey's  existence. 
The  latent  poison  might  be  detected  in  the  morbid  fever  of 
his  young  devotion — in  his  jealous  cravings  of  affection — in  the 
first  flush  of  his  ill-omened  love,  even  before  rivalship  and 
wrath  began.  Then,  too,  his  guilt  had  not  been  regularly 
organized  into  one  cold  and  deliberate  system — it  broke  forth 
in  impetuous  starts,  in  frantic  paroxysms — it  was  often  wrestled 
with,  though  by  a  feeble  mind — it  was  often  conquered  by  a 
tender,  though  a  fitful  temper — it  might  not  have  rushed  into 
the  last  and  most  awful  crime,  but  for  the  damning  instigation 
and  the  atrocious  craft  of  one,  who  (Aubrey  rightly  said)  could 
wield  and  mould  the  unhappy  victim  at  his  will.  Might  not, 
did  I  say?  Nay,  but  for  Montreuil's  accursed  influence,  had 
I  not  Aubrey's  own  word  that  that  crime  never  ivould  haveheen 
committed?  He  had  resolved  to  stifle  his  love — his  heart  had 
already  melted  to  Isora  and  to  me — he  had  already  tasted  the 
sweets  of  a  virtuous  resolution,  and  conquered  the  first  bitter- 
ness of  opposition  to  his  passion.  Why  should  not  the  resolu- 
tion thus  auspiciously  begun  have  been  mellowed  into  effect  ? 
Why  should  not  the  grateful  and  awful  remembrance  of  the 
crime  he  had  escaped  continue  to  preserve  him  from  meditat- 
ing crime  anew?  And  {O,  thought,  which,  while  I  now  write, 
steals  over  me  and  brings  with  it  an  unutterable  horde  of  emo- 
tions !)  but  for  that  all-tainting,  all-withering,  influence,  Aubrey's 
soul  might  at  this  moment  have  been  pure  from  murder,  and 
Isora — the  living  Isora — by  my  side  ! 

What  wonder,  as  these  thoughts  came  over  me,  that  sense, 
feeling,  reason,  gradually  shrunk  and  hardened  into  one  stern 
resolve  ?  I  looked  as  from  a  height  over  the  whole  conduct  of 
Montreuil :  I  saw  him  in  our  early  infancy  with  no  definite 
motive  (beyond  the  general  policy  of  intrigue),  no  fixed  design, 
which  might  somewhat  have  lessened  the  callousness  of  the 
crime,  not  only  fomenting  dissensions  in  the  hearts  of  brothers — 
not  only  turning  the  season  of  Avarm  affections,  and  yet  of 
unopened  passion,  into  strife  and  rancor — but  seizing  upon 
the  inherent  and  reigning  vice  of  our  bosoms,  which  he  should 
have  seized  to  crush — in  order  only  by  that  master-vice  to 


fiEVEREtJ>t,  371 

weave  our  characters  and  sway  our  conduct  to  his  will,  when- 
ever a  cool-blooded  and  merciless  policy  required  us  to  be  of 
that  will  the  minions  and  the  tools.  Thus  had  he  taken  hold 
of  the  diseased  jealousy  of  Aubrey,  and  by  that  handle,  joined 
to  the  latent  spring  of  superstition,  guided  him  on  his  wretched 
course  of  misery  and  guilt.  Thus  by  a  moral  irresolution  in 
Gerald  had  he  bowed  him  also  to  his  purposes,  and,  by  an 
infantine  animosity  between  that  brother  and  myself,  held  us 
both  in  a  state  of  mutual  hatred  which  I  shuddered  to  recall. 
Readily  could  I  now  perceive  that  my  charges  or  my  suspicions 
against  Gerald,  which,  in  ordinary  circumstances,  he  might 
have  dispassionately  come  forward  to  disprove,  had  been  repre- 
sented to  him  by  Montreuil  in  the  light  of  groundless  and  wilful 
insults  ;  and  thus  he  had  been  led  to  scorn  that  full  and  cool 
explanation  which,  if  it  had  not  elucidated  the  mystery  of  my 
afflictions,  would  have  removed  the  false  suspicion  of  guilt  from 
himself,  and  the  real  guilt  of  wrath  and  animosity  from  me. 

The  crime  of  the  forged  will,  and  the  outrage  to  the  dead 
and  to  myself,  was  a  link  in  his  woven  guilt  which  I  regarded 
the  least.  I  looked  rather  to  the  black  and  the  consummate 
craft  by  which  Aubrey  had  been  implicated  in  that  sin  ;  and 
my  indignation  became  mixed  with  horror  when  I  saw  Mon- 
treuil working  to  that  end  of  fraud  by  the  instigation  not  only 
of  a  guilty  and  unlawful  passion,  but  of  the  yet  more  unnatural 
and  terrific  engine  of  frenzy, — of  a  maniac's  despair.  Over 
the  peace  —the  happiness — the  honor — the  virtue  of  a  whole 
family,  through  fraud  and  through  blood,  this  priest  had  marched 
onward  to  the  goal  of  his  icy  and  heartless  ambition,  unrelent- 
ing and  unrepenting  ;  "but  not,"  I  said,  as  I  clenched  my  hand 
till  the  nails  met  in  the  flesh,  "not  forever  unchecked  and  un- 
requited !" 

But  in  what  manner  was  justice  to  be  obtained  ?  A  public 
court  of  law }  What !  drag  forward  the  deep  dishonor  of  my 
house — the  gloomy  and  convulsive  history  of  my  departed 
brother — his  crime  and  his  insanity  ?  What!  bring  that  history, 
connected  as  it  was  with  the  fate  of  Isora,  before  the  curious 
and  the  insolent  gaze  of  the  babbling  world  ?  Bare  that  awful 
record  to  the  jests,  to  the  scrutiny,  the  marvel  and  the  pity,  of 
that  most  coarse  of  all  tribunals — an  English  court  of  law  ?  and 
that  most  torturing  of  all  exposures — the  vulgar  comments  of 
an  English  public  ?  Could  I  do  this?  Yea,  in  the  sternness 
of  my  soul,  I  felt  that  I  could  submit  even  to  that  humiliation, 
if  no  other  way  presented  itself  by  which  I  could  arrive  at 
justice.      Was  there  no  other  way? — at  that  question  conjee* 


^J2  DEVEfefiUX. 

ture  paused — I  formed  no  scheme,  or  rather,  I  formed  a  hundred 
and  rejected  them  all ;  my  mind  settled,  at  last,  into  an  indis- 
tinct, unquestioned,  but  prophetic,  resolution,  that,  whenever  ray 
path  crossed  Montreuil's,  it  should  be  to  his  destruction.  I 
asked  not  how,  nor  when,  the  blow  was  to  be  dealt ;  I  felt  only 
a  solemn  and  exultant  certainty  that,  whether  it  borrowed  the 
sword  of  the  law,  or  the  weapon  of  private  justice,  »ii//e  should 
be  the  hand  which  brought  retribution  to  the  ashes  of  the  dead 
and  the  agony  of  the  survivor. 

So  soon  as  my  mind  had  subsided  into  this  determination,  I 
suffered  my  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  subjects  less  sternly  agitat- 
ing. Fondly  did  I  look  forward  to  a  meeting  with  Gerald,  and 
a  reconciliation  of  all  our  early  and  most  frivolous  disputes. 
As  an  atonement  for  the  injustice  my  suspicions  had  done  him, 
I  resolved  not  to  reclaim  my  inheritance.  My  fortune  was 
already  ample,  and  all  that  I  cared  to  possess  of  the  hereditary 
estates  were  the  ruins  of  the  old  house  and  the  copses  of  the 
surrounding  park  ;  these  Gerald  would  in  all  likelihood  easily 
yield  to  me  :  and  with  the  natural  sanguineness  of  my  tempera- 
ment, I  already  planned  the  reconstruction  of  the  ancient 
building,  and  the  method  of  that  solitary  life  in  which  I  resolved 
that  the  remainder  of  my  years  should  be  spent. 

Turning  from  this  train  of  thought,  I  recurred  to  the  mysteri- 
ous and  sudden  disappearance  of  Oswald  :  ///<r/  I  was  now 
easily  able  to  account  for.  There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that 
Montreuil  had  (immediately  after  the  murder),  as  he  declared 
he  would,  induced  Oswald  to  quit  England,  and  preserve 
silence,  either  by  bribery  or  by  threats.  And  when  I  recalled 
the  impression  which  the  man  had  made  upon  me— an  impres- 
sion certainly  not  favoraV>le  to  the  elevation  or  the  rigid  honesty 
of  his  mind — I  could  not  but  imagine  that  one  or  the  other  of 
these  means  Montreuil  found  far  from  difficult  of  success. 
The  delirious  fever  into  which  the  wounds  and  the  scene  of 
that  night  had  thrown  me,  and  the  long  interval  that  conse- 
quently elapsed  before  inquiry  was  directed  to  Oswald,  gave 
him  every  opportunity  and  indulgence  in  absenting  himself 
from  the  country,  and  it  was  not  improbable  that  he  had 
accompanied  Aubrey  to  Italy.  i 

Here  I  paused,  in  deep  acknowledgment  of  the  truth  of 
Aubrey's  assertion,  that  "under  similar  circumstances,  I  might 
perhaps  have  been  equally  guilty."  My  passions  had  indeed  been 
"intense  and  fierce  as  his  own  ";  and  therewas  a  dread  coin- 
cidence in  the  state  of  mind  into  which  each  of  us  had  been 
thrown  by  the  event  of  that  night,  which  made  the  epoch  of  a 


desolated  existence  to  both  of  us  ;  if  mine  had  been  but  a  pass- 
ing delirium,  and  his  a  confirmed  and  lasting  disease  of  the  in- 
tellect, the  causes  of  our  malady  had  been  widely  different.  He 
had  been  the  criminal — /only  the  sufferer. 

Thus  as  I  leant  over  the  deck,  and  the  waves  bore  me  home- 
wards, after  so  many  years  and  vicissitudes,  did  the  shadows  of 
thought  and  memory  flit  across  me.  How  seemingly  apart,  yet 
how  closely  linked,  had  been  the  great  events  in  my  wandering 
and  wildlife.  My  early  acquaintance  with  Bolingbroke,  whom 
for  more  than  nine  years  I  had  not  seen,  and  who,  at  a  superficial 
glance,  would  seem  to  have  exercised  influence  over  my  public 
rather  than  my  private  life, — how  secretly,  yet  how  powerfully  had 
that  circumstance  led  even  to  the  very  thoughts  which  now  pos- 
sessed me,  and  to  the  very  object  on  which  I  \vas  now  bound.  But 
for  that  circumstance,  I  might  not  have  learnt  of  the  retreat  of  Don 
Diego  D'Alvarez  in  his  last  illness  ;  I  might  never  have  renewed 
my  love  to  Isora  ;  and  whatever  had  been  her  fate,  destitution 
and  poverty  would  have  been  a  less  misfortune  than  her  union 
with  me.  But  for  my  friendship  for  Bolingbroke,  I  might  not 
have  visited  France,  nor  gained  the  favor  of  the  Regent,  nor 
the  ill  offices  of  Dubois,  nor  the  protection  and  kindness  of  the 

Czar.     I  might  never  have  been  ambassador  at  the  Court  of , 

nor  met  with  Bezoni,  nor  sought  an  asylum  for  a  spirit  sated 
with  pomp  and  thirsting  for  truth,  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines, 
nor  read  that  history  (which,  indeed,  might  then  never  have 
occurred),  that  now  rankled  at  my  heart,  urging  my  movements 
and  coloring  my  desires.  Thus,  by  the  finest,  but  the  strongest, 
meshes,  had  the  thread  of  my  political  honors  been  woven  with 
that  of  my  private  afflictions.  And  thus,  even  at  the  licentious 
festivals  of  the  Regent  of  France,  or  the  lifeless  parade  of  the  Court 

of ,  the   dark  stream  of  events  had  flowed  onward  beneath 

my  feet,  bearing  me  insensibly  to  that  very  spot  of  time  from 
which  I  now  surveyed  the  past  and  looked  upon  the  mist  and 
shadows  of  the  future. 

Adverse  winds  made  the  little  voyage  across  the  Channel  a 
business  of  four  days.  On  the  evening  of  the  last  we  landed  at 
Dover.  Within  thirty  miles  of  that  town  was  my  mother's 
retreat;  and  I  resolved,  before  I  sought  a  reconciliation  with 
Gerald,  or  justice  against  Montreuil,  to  visit  her  seclusion. 
Accordingly,  the  next  day,  I  repaired  to  her  abode. 

What  a  contrast  is  there  between  the  lives  of  human  beings  ! 
Considering  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all  mortal  careers 
are  the  same,  how  wonderfully  is  the  interval  varied  !  Some,  the 
weeds  of  the  world,  dashed  from  shore  to  shore — all  vicissitude— 


j74  devereux. 

enterprise — strife — disquiet ;  others,  the  world's  lichens — rooted 
to  some  peaceful  rock — growing — flourishing — withering  on  the 
same  spot, — scarce  a  feeling  expressed — scarce  a  sentiment  called 
forth — scarce  a  tithe  of  the  properties  of  their  very  nature  ex- 
panded into  action. 

There  was  an  air  of  quiet  and  stillness  in  the  red  quadrangular 
building,  as  my  carriage  stopped  at  itsporch,  which  struck  upon 
me,  like  a  breathing  reproach  to  those  who  sought  the  abode  of 
peace  with  feelings  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  the  place.  A  small 
projecting  porch  was  covered  with  ivy,  and  thence  issued  an 
aged  portress  in  answer  to  my  summons. 

"  The  Countess  Devereux,"  said  she,  "is  now  the  superior  of 
this  society"  (convent  they  called  it  not),  "  and  rarely  admits 
any  stranger." 

I  gave  in  my  claim  to  admission,  and  was  ushered  into  a  small 
parlor  :  all  there,  too,  was  still — the  brown  oak  wainscoting — the 
huge  chairs — the  few  antique  portraits — the  uninhabited  aspect 
of  the  chamber — all  were  silently  eloquent  of  quietude — but 
a  quietude  comfortless  and  sombre.  At  length,  my  mother 
appeared,  I  sprung  forward — my  childhood  was  before  me — 
years — care — change  were  forgotten — 1  was  a  boy  again — I 
sprung  forward,  and  was  ir)  my  mother's  embrace  !  It  was 
long  before,  recovering  myself,  I  noted  how  lifeless  and  chill 
was  that  embrace,  but  I  did  so  at  last,  and  my  enthusiasm  withered 
at  once. 

We  sate  down  together,  and  conversed  long  and  uninterrupt- 
edly, but  our  conversation  was  like  that  of  acquaintances,  not  the 
fondest  and  closest  of  all  relations  (for  I  need  scarcely  add 
that  I  told  her  not  of  my  meeting  with  Aubrey,  nor  undeceived 
her  with  respect  to  the  date  of  his  death).  Every  monastic 
recluse  that  I  had  hitherto  seen,  even  in  the  most  seeming 
content  with  retirement,  had  loved  to  converse  of  the  exterior 
world,  and  had  betrayed  an  interest  in  its  events — for  my  mother 
only,  worldly  objects  and  interests  seemed  utterly  dead.  She 
expressed  little  surprise  to  see  me — little  surprise  at  my  altera- 
tion ;  she  only  said  that  my  mien  was  improved,  and  that  I 
reminded  her  of  myfather  ;  she  testified  no  anxiety  to  hear  of  my 
travels  or  my  adventures — she  testified  even  no  willingness  to 
speak  of  herself — she  described  to  me  the  life  of  one  day,  and  then 
said  that  the  history  of  ten  years  was  told.  A  close  cap  con- 
fined all  the  locks  for  whose  rich  luxuriance  and_golden  hue  she 
had  once  been  noted — for  here  they  were  not  the  victim  of  a  vow, 
as  in  a  nunnery  they  would  have  been — and  herdress  was  plain, 
simple,  and  unadorned:  save  these  .alterations  of  attire,  none 


DEVEREUX,  375 

were  visible  in  her  exterior — the  torpor  of  her  life  seemed  to 
have  paralyzed  even  time — the  bloom  yet  dwelt  in  her  unwrinkled 
cheek — the  mouth  had  not  fallen — the  faultless  features  were 
faultless  still.  But  there  was  a  deeper  stillness  than  ever  breath- 
ing through  this  frame  :  it  was  as  if  the  soul  iiad  been  lulled  to 
sleep — her  mien  was  lifeless — her  voice  was  lifeless — her  gesture 
was  lifeless — the  impression  she  produced  was  like  that  of  enter- 
ing some  chamber  which  has  not  been  entered  before  for  a 
century.  She  consented  to  my  request  to  stay  with  her  all  the 
day — a  bed  was  prepared  for  me,  and  at  sunrise  the  next  morning 
I  was  folded  once  more  in  the  chilling  mechanism  of  her  em- 
brace and  dismissed  on  my  journey  to  the  metropolis. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Retreat  of  a  celeT>rated  Man,  and  a  Visit  to  a  great  Poet. 

I  ARRIVED  in  town,  and  drove  at  once  to  Gerald's  house ;  it 
was  not  difficult  to  find  it,  for  in  ray  young  day  it  had  been  the 

residence  of  the  Duke  of ;  and  wealthy  as  I  knew  was  the 

owner  of  the  Devereux  lands,  I  was  somewhat  startled  at  the 
extent  and  the  magnificence  of  his  palace.  To  my  inexpressi- 
ble disappointment,  I  found  that  Gerald  had  left  London  a  day 
or  two  before  my  arrival  on  a  visit  to  a  nobleman  nearly  con- 
nected with  our  family,  and  residing  in  the  same  county  as  that 
in  which  Devereux  Court  was  situated.  Since  the  fire,  which 
had  destroyed  all  of  the  old  house  but  the  one  tower  which  I  had 
considered  as  peculiarly  my  own,  Gerald,  I  heard,  had  always, 
in  visiting  his  estates,  taken  up  his  abode  at  the  mansion  of  one 
or  other  of  his  neighbors  ;  and  to  Lord 's  house  I  now  re- 
solved to  repair.  My  journey  was  delayed  for  a  day  or  two,  by 
accidentally  seeing  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  to  which  I  drove  from 
Gerald's  house",  the  favorite  servant  of  Lord  Bolingbroke,  This 
circumstance  revived  in  me,  at  once,  all  my  attachment  to  that 
personage,  and  hearing  he  was  at  his  country  house,  within  a 
few  miles  from  town,  I  resolved  the  next  morning  to  visit  him. 
It  was  not  only  that  I  contemplated  with  an  eager,  yet  a  melan- 
choly interest,  an  interview  with  one  whose  blazing  career  I  had 
long  watched,  and  whose  letters  (for  during  the  years  we  had 
been  parted,  he  wrote  to  me  often)  seemed  to  testify  the  same 
satiety  of  the  triumphs  and  gauds  of  ambition  which  had  brought 
something  of  wisdom  to  myself ;  it  was  not  only  that  I  wished 
to  commune  with  that  Bolingbroke  in  retirement  whom  1  bad 


37^  DEVEREUX. 

known  the  oracle  of  statesmen,  and  the  pride  of  courts  ;  nor 
even  that  I  loved  the  man,  and  was  eager  once  more  to  embrace 
him  ;  a  fiercer  and  more  active  motive  urged  me  to  visit  one 
whose  knowledge  of  all  men,  and  application  of  their  various 
utilities,  were  so  remarkable,  and  who,  even  in  his  present  peace 
and  retirement,  would  not  improbably  be  acquainted  with  the 
abode  of  that  unquiet  and  plotting  ecclesiastic  whom  I  now 
panted  to  discover,  and  whom  Bolingbroke  had  of  old  often 
guided  or  employed. 

When  my  carriage  stopped  at  the  statesman's  door,  I  was  in- 
formed that  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  at  his  farm.  Farm  !  how 
oddly  did  that  word  sound  in  my  ear,  coupled  as  it  was  with 
the  name  of  one  so  brilliant  and  so  restless.  I  asked  the  ser- 
vant to  direct  me  where  1  should  find  him,  and,  following  the 
directions,  I  proceeded  to  the  search  alone.  It  was  a  day  to- 
wards the  close  of  autumn,  bright,  soft,  clear,  and  calm  as  the 
decline  of  a  vigorous  and  genial  age.  I  walked  slowly  through 
a  field  robbed  of  its  golden  grain,  and  as  I  entered  another,  I 
saw  the  object  of  my  search.  He  had  seemingly  just  given 
orders  to  a  person  in  a  laborer's  dress,  who  Avas  quitting  him, 
and  with  downcast  eyes  he  was  approaching  towards  me.  I 
noted  how  slow  and  even  was  the  pace  which,  once  stately,  yet 
rapid  and  irregular,  had  betrayed  the  haughty,  but  wild,  char- 
acter of  his  mind.  He  paused  often,  as  if  in  thought,  and  I  ob- 
served that  once  he  stopped  longer  than  usual,  and  seemed  to 
gaze  wistfully  on  the  ground.  Afterwards  (when  I  had  joined 
him)  we  passed  that  spot,  and  I  remarked,  with  a  secret  smile, 
that  it  contained  one  of  those  little  mounds  in  which  that  busy 
and  herded  tribe  of  the  insect  race,  which  have  been  held  out 
to  man's  social  state  at  once  as  a  mockery  and  a  model,  held 
their  populous  home.  There  seemed  a  latent  moral  in  the  pause 
and  watch  of  the  disappointed  statesman  by  that  mound,  which 
afforded  a  clue  to  the  nature  of  his  reflections. 

He  did  not  see  me  till  I  was  close  before  him,  and  had  called 
him  by  his  name,  nor  did  he  at  first  recognize  me,  for  my  garb 
was  foreign,  and  my  upper  lip  unshaven  ;  and,  as  I  said  before, 
years  had  strangely  altered  me  :  but  when  he  did,  he  testified 
all  the  cordiality  I  had  anticipated.  I  linked  my  arm  in  his, 
and  we  walked  to  and  fro  for  hours,  talking  of  all  that  had 
passed  since  and  before  our  parting,  and  feeling  our  hearts 
warm  to  each  other  as  we  talked. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  you,"  said  he,  "how  widely  did  our 
hopes  and  objects  differ!  yours  from  my  own-r-you  seemingly 
had  the  vantage-ground,  but  it  was  an  artificial  eminence,  and 


DEVEREUX.  377 

my  level  state,  though  it  appeared  less  tempting,  was  more  se- 
cure. I  had  just  been  disgraced  by  a  misguided  and  ungrate- 
ful prince.  1  had  already  gone  into  a  retirement,  where  my 
only  honors  were  proportioned  to  my  fortitude  in  bearing  con- 
demnation— and  my  only  flatterer  was  the  hope  of  finding  a 
companion  and  a  Mentor  in  myself.  You,  my  friend,  parted 
witli  life  before  you  ;  and  you  only  relinquished  the  pursuit  of 
Fortune  at  one  court,  to  meet  her  advances  at  another.  Nearly 
ten  years  have  flown  since  that. time — my  situation  is  but  little 
changed — I  am  returned,  it  is  true,  to  my  native  soil,  but  not  to 
a  soil  more  indulgent  to  ambition  and  exertion  than  the  scene 
of  my  exile.  My  sphere  of  action  is  still  shut  from  me — my 
mind  is  slill  banished!*  You  return  young  in  years,  but  full  of 
successes.  Have  they  brought  you  happiness,  Devereux?  or 
have  you  yet  a  temper  to  envy  my  content?" 

"Alas  !  "  said  I,  "  who  can  bear  too  close  a  search  beneath 
the  mask  and  robe  ?  Talk  not  of  me  now.  It  is  ungracious 
for  the  fortunate  to  repine — and  I  reserve  whatever  may  dis- 
quiet me  within  for  your  future  consolation  and  advice.  At 
present  speak  to  me  of  yourself — you  are  happy,  then?" 

"I  am  !"  said  Bolingbroke  emphatically.  "Life  seems  to  me 
to  possess  two  treasures — one  glittering  and  precarious,  the 
other  of  less  rich  a  show,  but  of  more  solid  value.  The  one  is 
Power,  the  other  Virtue  ;  and  there  is  the  main  difference  be- 
tween the  two — Power  is  entrusted  to  us  as  a  loan  ever  required 
again,  and  with  a  terrible  arrear  of  interest — Virtue  obtained 
by  us  as  a  boon  which  we  can  only  lose  through  our  own  folly, 
when  once  it  is  acquired.  In  my  youth  I  was  caught  by  the  for- 
mer— hence  my  errors  and  my  misfortunes  !  In  my  declining 
years  I  have  sought  the  latter  ;  hence  my  palliatives  and  my 
consolation.  But  you  have  not  seen  my  home  and  all  its  attrac- 
tions," added  Bolingbroke,  with  a  smile,  which  reminded  me 
of  his  former  self.  "  I  will  show  them  to  you."  And  we  turned 
our  steps  to  the  house. 

As  we  walked  thither,  I  wondered  to  find  how  little  melan- 
choly was  the  change  Bolingbroke  had  undergone.  Ten  years, 
which  bring  man  from  his  prime  to  his  decay,  had  indeed  left 
their  trace  upon  his  stately  form,  and  the  still  unrivalled  beauty 
of  his  noble  features ;  but  the  manner  gained  all  that  the  form 
had  lost.  In  his  days  of  more  noisy  greatness,  there  had  been 
something  artificial  and  unquiet  in  the  sparkling  alternations 
he  had  loved  to  adopt.     He  had  been  too  fond  of  changing  wis- 

*  I  need  scarcely  remind  tfie  reader  that  Lord  Bolingbroke,  though   he  had  received  • 
full  pardon,  was  forbidden  to  r?surnc  his  s?at  iij  the  House  o{  llords — Ed. 


378  DEVEREUX, 

dom  by  a  quick  turn  into  wit — too  fond  of  the  affectation  of 
bordering  the  serious  with  the  gay — business  with  pleasure.  If 
this  had  not  taken  from  the  polish  of  his  manner,  it  had  dimin- 
ished its  dignity  and  given  it  the  air  of  being  assumed  and  in- 
sincere. Now  all  was  quiet,  earnest,  and  impressive  ;  there  was 
tenderness  even  in  what  was  melancholy  :  and  if  there  lingered 
the  affectation  of  blending  the  classic  character  with  his  own, 
the  character  was  more  noble,  and  the  affectation  more  unseen. 
But  this  manner  was  only  the  faint  mirror  of  a  mind  which, 
retaining  much  of  its  former  mould,  had  been  embellished 
and  exalted  by  adversity,  and  which,  if  it  banished  not  its 
former  frailties,  had  acquired  a  thousand  new  virtues  to 
redeem  them. 

"You  see,"  said  my  companion,  pointing  to  the  walls  of  the 
hall,  which  we  had  now  entered,  "the  subject  which  at  present 
occupies  the  greater  part  of  my  attention.  I  am  meditating 
how  to  make  the  hall  most  illustrative  of  its  owner's  pursuits. 
You  see  the  desire  of  improving,  of  creating,  and  of  associating 
the  improvement  and  the  creation  with  ourselves,  follows  us 
banished  men  even  to  our  seclusion.  I  think  of  having  tliose 
walls  painted  with  the  implements  of  husbandry,  and  through 
pictures  of  spades  and  ploughshares,  to  express  my  employ- 
ments, and  testify  my  content  in  them." 

"Cincinnatus  is  a  better  model  than  Aristippus,  confess  it," 
said  I,  smiling.  "But  if  the  senators  come  hither  to  summon 
you  to  power,  will  you  resemble  the  Roman,  not  only  in  being 
found  at  your  plough,  but  in  your  reluctance  to  leave  it,  and 
your  eagerness  to  return?" 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you?"  replied  Bolingbroke.  "Will 
you  play  the  cynic  if  I  answer  no  7  We  should  not  boast  of 
despising  power,-  when  of  use  to  others,  but  of  being  contented 
to  live  without  it.  This  is  the  end  of  my  philosophy  !  But 
let  me  present  you  to  one  whom  I  value  more  now  than  I 
valued  power  at  any  time." 

As  he  said  this,  Bolingbroke  threw  open  the  door  of  an 
apartment,  and  introduced  me  to  a  lady  with  whom  he  had  found 
that  domestic  happiness  denied  him  in  his  first  marriage.  The 
niece  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  this  most  charming  woman 
possessed  all  her  aunt's  wit,  and  far  more  than  all  her  aunt's 
beauty.*     She  was  in  weak  health  ;  but  her  vivacity  was  ex- 

♦  "I  am  not  asTiampd  lo  say  to  you  that  I  admire  her  more  every  hour  of  my  life." — 
Letter  from  Lord  Bolin^hroke  to  Swift. 

Bolingbroke  loved  her  to  the  last ;  and  perhaps  it  is  just  to  a  man  so  celebrated  for  his 
gallantries,  to  add  that  this  beautiful  and  accomplished  woman  seems  to  hare  admire^ 
91)4  ff tftmtd  as  much  as  she  loved  him,— Eo, 


OEVEREUX.  379 

treme,  and  her  conversation  just  what  should  be  the  conversa- 
tion of  a  woman  who  shines  without  striving  for  it. 

The  business  on  which  I  was  bound  only  allowed  me  to  stay 
two  days  with  Bolingbroke,  and  this  I  stated  at  first,  lest  he 
should  have  dragged  me  over  his  farm. 

"  Well,"  said  my  host,  after  vainly  endeavoring  to  induce 
me  to  promise  a  longer  stay,  "if  you  can  only  give  us  two  days, 
I  must  write  and  excuse  myself  to  a  great  man  with  whom  I 
was  to  dine  to-day  :  yet,  if  it  were  not  so  inhospitable,  I  should 
like  much  to  carry  you  with  me  to  his  house  ;  for  I  own  that  I 
wish  you  to  see  my  companions,  and  to  learn  that  if  I  still 
consult  the  oracles,  they  are  less  for  the  predictions  of  fortune 
than  as  the  inspirations  of  the  god." 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Bolingbroke,  who  spoke  in  French,  "I 
know  whom  you  allude  to.  Give  him  my  homage,  and  assure 
him,  when  he  next  visits  us,  we  will  appoint  six  dames  du 
palais  to  receive  and  pet  him." 

Upon  this  I  insisted  upon  accompanying  Bolingbroke  to  the 
house  of  so  fortunate  a  being,  and  he  consented  to  my  wish 
with  feigned  reluctance,  but  evident  pleasure. 

"And  who,"  said  I  to  Lady  Bolingbroke,  "is  the  happy  ob- 
ject of  so  much  respect?" 

Lady  Bolingbroke  answered  laughing,  that  nothing  was  so 
pleasant  as  suspense,  and  that  it  would  be  cruel  in  her  to  de- 
prive me  of  it ;  and  we  conversed  with  so  much  zest,  that  it 
was  not  till  Bolingbroke  had  left  the  room  for  some  moments, 
that  I  observed  he  was  not  present.  I  took  the  opportunity  to 
remark  that  I  was  rejoiced  to  find  hira  so  happy,  and  with  so 
much  cause  for  happiness, 

"  He  is  happy,  though,  at  times,  he  is  restless.  How,  chained 
to  this  oar,  can  he  be  otherwise?"  answered  Lady  Boling- 
broke, with  a  sigh  ;  "but  his  friends,"  she  added,  "who  most 
enjoy  his  retirement,  must  yet  lament  it.  His  genius  is  not 
wasted  here,  it  is  true;  where  could  it  be  wasted?  But  who 
does  not  feel  that  it  is  employed  in  too  confined  a  sphere? 
And  yet — "  and  I  saw  a  tear  start  to  her  eye —  "  I,  at  least, 
ought  not  to  repine.  I  should  lose  the  best  part  of  my  happi- 
ness if  there  was  nothing  I  could  console  him  for." 

"Believe  me,  "  said  I,  "  I  have  known  Bolingbroke  in  the 
zenith  of  his  success  ;  but  never  knew  him  so  worthy  of  con- 
gratulation as  now!" 

"  Is  that  flattery  to  him  or  to  me  ?  "  said  Lady  Bolingbroke, 
smiling  archly,  for  her  smiles  were  quick  successors  to  her 
tears. 


380  DEVEREUX. 

'^ Z>e/ur  i/igm'on'/"  answered  1 ;  "but  you  must  allow  that, 
though  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  all  that  tlie  world  can  give,  it 
is  still  better  to  gain  something  that  the  world  cannot  take 
away !  " 

"And  you  are  also  a  Philosopher!"  cried  Lady  Bolingbroke 
gayly.  "Ah,  poor  me  !  In  my  youth  my  portion  was  the 
cloister  ;*  in  my  later  years  I  am  banished  to  \.\\e porch!  You 
have  no  conception,  Monsieur  Devereux,  what  wise  faces  and 
profound  maxims  we  have  here  ;  especially  as  all  who  come  to 
visit  my  lord  think  it  necessary  to  quote  Tully,  and  talk  of 
solitude  as  if  it  were  a  heaven!  Les  pauvres  bo  ns  gens !  ihey 
seem  a  little  surprised  when  Henry  receives  them  smilingly — 
begs  them  to  construe  the  Latin — gives  them  good  wine,  and 
sends  them  back  to  London  with  faces  half  the  length  they 
were  on  their  arrival.  Mais  void  Monsieur  le  fermier  phil- 
osophe  !  " 

And  Bolingbroke  entering,  I  took  my  leave  of  this  lively 
and  interesting  lady,  and  entered  his  carriage. 

As  soon  as  we  were  seated,  he  pressed  me  for  my  reasons  for 
refusing  to  prolong  my  visit.  As  I  thought  they  would  be 
more  opportune  after  the  excursion  of  the  day  was  over,  and 
as,  in  truth,  I  was  not  eager  to  relate  them,  I  begged  to  defer 
the  narration  till  our  return  to  his  house  at  night,  and  then  I 
directed  the  conversation  into  a  new  channel. 

"My  chief  companion,"  said  Bolingbroke,  after  describing 
to  me  his  course  of  life,  "is  the  man  you  are  about  to  visit ; 
he  has  his  frailties  and  infirmities — and  in  saying  that,  I  only 
imply  that  he  is  human — but  he  is  wise,  reflective,  generous, 
and  affectionate  ;  add  these  qualities  to  a  dazzling  wit,  and  a 
genius  deep,  if  not  sublime,  and  what  wonder  that  we  forget 
something  of  vanity  and  something  of  fretfulness — effects  j 
rather  of  the  frame  than  of  the  mind  ;  the  wonder  only  is  that, 
with  a  body  the  victim  to  every  disease,  crippled  and  imbecile 
from  the  cradle,  his  frailties  should  not  be  more  numerous,  and 
his  care,  his  thoughts,  and  attentions  not  wholly  limited  to  his 
own  complaints — for  the  sickly  are  almost  of  necessity  selfish — 
and  that  mind  must  have  a  vast  share  of  benevolence  which 
can  always  retain  the  softness  of  charity  and  love  for  others, 
when  pain  and  disease  constitute  the  morbid  links  that  per- 
petually bind  it  to  self.  If  this  great  character  is  my  chief 
companion,  my  chief  correspondent  is  not  less  distinguished  ; 
in  a  word,  no  longer  to  keep  you  in  suspense,  Pope  is  my  com- 
panion, and  Swift  my  correspondent." 

•  ♦  She  was  brought  up  at  St.  Cyr. — Ed, 


DEVEREUX.  381 

"You  are  fortunate — but  so  also  are  they.  Your  letter  in- 
formed me  of  Swift's  honorable  exile  in  Ireland — how  does  he 
bear  it?" 

"Too  feelingly — his  disappointments  turn  his  blood  to  acid. 
He  said,  characteristically  enough,  in  one  of  his  letters,  that  in 
fishing  once  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  he  felt  a  great  fish  at  the 
end  of  his  line,  which  he  drew  up  almost  to  the  ground,  but  it 
dropt  in,  and  the  disappointment,  he  adds,  vexes  him  to  this 
day,  and  he  believes  it  to  be  the  type  of  all  his  future  dis- 
appointments :*  it  is  wonderful  how  reluctantly  a  very  active 
mind  sinks  into  rest." 

"Yet  why  should  retirement  be  rest?  Do  you  recollect  in 
the  first  conversation  we  ever  had  together,  we  talked  of 
Cowley  ?,  Do  you  recollect  how  justly,  and  even  sublimely,  he 
has  said,  'Cogitation  is  that  which  distinguishes  the  solitude  of 
a  God  from  that  of  a  wild  beast  ?  *  " 

"  It  is  finely  said,"  answered  Bolingbroke,  "  but  Swift  was 
born  not  for  cogitation,  but  action — for  turbulent  times,  not 
for  calm.  He  ceases  to  be  great  directly  he  is  still ;  and  his 
bitterness  at  every  vexation  is  so  great  that  I  have  often 
thought,  in  listening  to  him,  of  the  Abbe  de  Cyran,  who,attempt- 
ing  to  throw  nutshells  out  of  the  bars  of  his  window,  and  con- 
stantly failing  in  the  attempt,  exclaimed  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage, 
'Thus  does  Providence  delight  in  frustrating  my  designs  ! '  " 

*  In  this  letter  Swift  adds,  "  I  should  be  ashamed  to  s«y  this  if  you  (Lord  Bolingbroke) 
had  not  a  spirit  fitter  to  bear  your  own  misfortunes  than  I  have  to  think  oi  them  ";  and 
this  is  true.  Nothing  can  be  more  striking,  or  more  honorable  to  Lord  Bolingbroke,  than 
the  contrast  between  Swift's  letters  and  that  nobleman's  upon  the  subject  of  their  mutual 
disappointments.  I  especially  note  the  contrast,  because  it  has  been  so  grievously  the  cant 
of  Lord  Bolingbroke's  decriers  to  represent  his  affection  for  retirement  as  hollow,  and  his 
resignation  in  adversity  as  a  boast  rather  than  a  fact.  Now  I  will  challenge  any  one  thor- 
oughly and  dispassionately  to  examine  what  is  left  to  us  of  the  life  of  this  great  man,  and 
after  having  done  so,  to  select  from  all  modern  history  an  example  of  one  who,  in  the  prims, 
of  life  and  height  of  ambition,  ever  passed  from  a  very  active  and  exciting  career  into 
retirement  and  disgrace,  and  bore  the  change — iong,  bitter,  and  permanent  as  it  was — with 
a  greater  and  more  thoroughly  sustained  magnanimity  than  did  Lord  Bolingbroke.  He  has 
been  reproached  for  taking  part  in  political  contests  in  the  midst  of  his  praises-  ind 
"  affected  enjoyment "  of  retirement  ;  and  this,  made  matter  of  reproach,  is  exactlj  the 
subject  on  which  beseems  to  me  the  most  worthy  of  praise.  For,  nutting  aside  all  motives 
for  action,  on  the  purity  of  which  men  are  generally  incredulous,  a^  ,<  hatred  to  ill-govern- 
ment (an  antipathy  wonderfully  strong  in  wise  men,  and  wonderfully  weak  in  fools),  the 
honest  impulse  of  the  citizen,  and  tht  better  and  higher  sentiment,  to  which  Bolingbroke 
appeared  peculiarly  alive,  of  affection  co  mankind — putting  these  utterly  aside — it  must  be 
owned  that  resignation  is  the  more  noble  in  proportion  a«  it  is  the  less  passive — that  retire- 
ment is  only  a  morbid  selfishness  if  it  prohibit  exertions  for  others  ;  that  it  is  only  really 
dignified  and  noble  when  it  is  the  shade  whence  issue  the  oracles  that  are  to  instruct  man- 
kind ;  and  that  retirement  of  this  nature  us  the  sole  seclusion  which  a  good  and  wise  man 
will  covet  or  commend.  The  very  philosophv  which  makes  such  a  man  seek  the  quiet, 
makes  him  eschew  the  inutility  of  the  hermitage.  Very  little  praiseworthy  to  me  would 
have  seemed  Lord  Bolingbroke  among  his  haymakers  and  ploughmen,  if  among  haymakers 
and  ploughmen  he  had  looked  with  an  indifferent  eye  upon  a  profligate  minister  and  a  venal 
parliament ;  very  little  interest  in  my  eyes  would  have  attached  itself  to  his  beans  and 
vetches,  had  beans  and  vetches  caused  him  to  forget  that  if  he  was  happier  in  a  farm,  h« 
could  be  more  useful  in  a  senate,  and  made  him  forego,  in  the  sphere  of  a  bailiff,  all  care  iox 
re-entering  that  of  a  legislator. — Ed. 


382  DEVEREUX. 

"But  you  are  fallen  from  a  far  greater  height  of  hope  than 
Swift  could  ever  have  attained — you  bear  this  change  well,  tut 
not,  I  hope f  without  a  struggle." 

"You  are  right — not  without  a  struggle;  while  corruption 
thrives,  I  will  not  be  silent ;  while  bad  men  govern,  I  will  not 
be  still." 

In  conversation  of  this  sort  passed  the  time,  till  we  arrived 
at  Pope's  villa. 

We  found  the  poet  in  his  study — indued,  as  some  of  his 
pictures  represent  him,  in  a  long  gown  and  a  velvet  cap.  He 
received  Bolingbroke  with  great  tenderness,  and  being,  as  he 
said,  in  robuster  health  than  he  had  enjoyed  for  months,  he 
insisted  on  carrying  us  to  his  grotto.  I  know  nothing  more 
common  to  poets  than  a  pride  in  what  belongs  to  their  houses, 
and  perhaps,  to  a  man  not  ill-natured,  there  are  few  things 
more  pleasant  than  indulging  the  little  weaknesses  of  those  we 
admire.  We  sat  down  in  a  small  temple  made  entirely  of  shells; 
and  whether  it  was  that  the  Creative  Genius  gave  an  undue 
charm  to  the  place,  I  know  not :  but  as  the  murmur  of  a  rill, 
glassy  as  the  Blandusian  fountain,  was  caught,  and  re-given 
from  side  to  side  by  a  perpetual  echo,  and  through  an  arcade 
of  trees,  whose  leaves,  ever  and  anon,  fell  startlingly  to  the 
ground  beneath  the  light  touch  of  the  autumn  air,  you  saw  the 
sails  on  the  river  pass  and  vanish,  like  the  cares  which  breathe 
over  the  smooth  glass  of  wisdom,  but  may  not  linger  to  dim  it, 
it  was  not  difficult  to  invest  the  place,  humble  as  it  was,  with  a 
classic  interest,  or  to  recall  the  loved  retreats  of  the  Roman 
bards,  without  smiling  too  fastidiously  at  the  contrast. 

"  Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  anseen, 
Within  thy  airy  shell. 
By  slow  Meander's  margin  green. 
Or  by  the  violet-embroidered  vale, 
Where  the  lovelorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well  ; 

Sweet  Echo,  dost  thou  shun  those  haunts  of  yore, 
And  in  the  dim  caves  of  a  northern  shore 
Delight  to  dwell  !  " 

**  Let  the  compliment  to  you.  Pope,"  said  Eolingbroice, 
"atone  for  the  profanation  of  weaving  three  wretched  lines  of 
mine  with  those  most  musical  notes  of  Milton." 

"Ah,"  said  Pope,  "would  that  you  could  give  me  a  fitting 
inscription  for  my  fount  and  grotto  !  The  only  one  I  re- 
member is  hackneyed,  and  yet  it  has  spoilt  me,  I  fear,  for  all 
others  : 


DEVEREUX.  383 

**  Hujus  Nympha  loci,  sacri  custodia  fontis 
Domiio  dum  blandas  sentio  murmur  aquae  ; 
Parce  meum.  quisquis  tanges  cava  marnlora,  somnum 
Rumpere  ;  sive  bibas,  sive  lavere,  tace."* 

" We  cannot  hope  to  match  it,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "though 
you  know  I  value  myself  on  these  things.  But  tell  me  your 
news  of  Gay — is  he  growing  wiser  ?  " 

*'  Not  a  whit ;  he  is  forever  a  dupe  to  the  spes  credula  ;  al- 
ways talking  of  buying  an  annuity  that  he  may  be  independent, 
and  always  spending  as  fast  as  he  earns,  that  he  may  appear 
munificent." 

"  Poor  Gay !  but  he  is  a  common  example  of  the  improv- 
idence of  his  tribe,  while  you  are  an  exception.  Yet  mark, 
Devereux,  the  inconsistency  of  Pope's  thrift  and  carefulness  : 
he  sends  a  parcel  of  fruit  to  some  ladies  with  this  note,  'Take 
care  of  the  papers  that  wrap  the  apples,  and  return  them 
safely ;  they  are  the  only  copies  I  have  of  one  part  of  the 
Iliad.'  Thus,  you  see,  our  economist  saves  his  paper,  and 
hazards  his  epic ! " 

Pope,  who  is  always  flattered  by  an  allusion  to  his  negligence 
of  fame,  smiled  slightly  and  answered,  "What  man,  alas,  ever 
profits  by  the  lessons  of  his  friends  ?  How  many  exact  rules 
has  our  good  Dean  of  St.  Patrick  laid  down  for  both  of  us — 
how  angrily  still  does  he  chide  us  for  our  want  of  prudence 
ahd  our  love  of  good  living,  I  intend,  in  answer  to  his  charges 
on  the  latter  score,  though  I  vouch,  as  I  well  may,  for  our 
temperance,  to  give  him  the  reply  of  the  sage  to  the  foolish 
courtier — " 

"  What  was  that?"  asked  Bolingbroke. 

"  Why,  the  courtier  saw  the  sage  picking  out  the  best  dishes 
at  table.  'How,'  said  he,  with  a  sneer,  'are  sages  such  epi- 
cures?"— 'Do  you  think,  sir,' replied  the  wise  man,  reaching 
over  the  table  to  help  himself,  'do  you  think,  sir,  that  the 
Creator  made  the  good  things  of  this  world  only  for  fools? ' " 

"  How  the  dean  will  pish  and  pull  his  wig  when  he  reads 
your  illustration,"  said  Bolingbroke,  laughing.  "  We  shall 
never  agree  in  our  reasonings  on  that  part  of  philosophy. 
Swift  loves  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  find  privation  or  distress 

*  Thus  very  inadequately  translated  by  Pope  (see  his  Letter  to  Edward  Blount,  Etq^ 
descriptive  of  his  grotto)  : 

"  Nymph  of  the  grot,  these  sacred  springs  I  keep, 
And  to  the  murmur  of  these  waters  sleep  : 
Ah,  spare  my  slumbers  ;  gently  tread  the  cave, 
And  drinlc  in  silence,  or  in  silence  lave." 

It  is,  however,  quite  impossible  to  convey  to  an  unlearned  reader  the  exquisite  and 
Spnt-Iike  beauty  of  the  Latin  verses.— Ed. 


384  PEVEREUX. 

and  has  no  notion  of  epicurean  wisdom  ;  for  my  part,  I  tliink 
the  use  of  knowledge  is  to  make  us  happier.  I  would  compare 
the  mind  to  the  beautiful  statue  of  Love  by  Praxiteles — when 
its  eyes  were  bandaged  the  countenance  seemed  grave  and  sad, 
but  the  moment  you  removed  the  bandage,  the  most  serene 
and  enchanting  smile  diffused  itself  over  the  whole  face." 

So  passed  the  morning  till  the  hour  of  dinner,  and  this 
repast  was  served  with  an  elegance  and  luxury  which  the  sons 
of  Apollo  seldom  command.*  As  the  evening  closed  our  con- 
versation fell  upon  friendship,  and  the  increasing  disposition 
towards  it,  which  comes  with  increasing  years.  "  Whilst  my 
mind,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "shrinks  more  and  more  from  the 
world,  and  feels  in  its  independence  less  yearning  to  external 
objects,  the  ideas  of  friendship  return  oftener,  they  busy  me, 
they  warm  me  more.  Is  it  that  we  grow  more  tender  as  th$ 
moment  of  our  great  separation  approaches?  or  is  it  that  they 
who  are  to  live  together  in  another  state  (for  friendship  exists 
not  but  for  the  good)  begin  to  feel  more  strongly  that  divine 
sympathy  which  is  to  be  the  great  bond  of  their  future 
society?"  f 

While  Bolingbroke  was  thus  speaking,  and  Pope  listened 
with  ail  the  love  and  reverence  which  he  evidently  bore  to  his 
friend  stamped  upon  his  worn  but  expressive  countenance,  I 
inly  said,  "  Surely  the  love  between  minds  like  these  should 
live  and  last  without  the  changes  that  ordinary  affections  feel ! 
Who  would  not  mourn  for  the  strength  of  all  human  ties,  if 
hereafter  these  are  broken,  and  asperity  succeed  to  friendship, 
or  aversion  to  esteem  ?  /,  a  wanderer,  without  heir  to  my 
memory  and  wealth,  shall  pass  away  and  my  hasty  and  un- 
mellowed  fame  will  moulder  with  my  clay  ;  but  will  the  names 
of  those  whom  I  now  behold  ever  fall  languidly  on  the  ears  of 
a  future  race,  and  will  there  not  forever  be  some  sympathy 
with  their  friendship,  softer  and  warmer  than  admiration  for 
their  fame  ?" 

We  left  our  celebrated  host  about  two  hours  before  midnight, 
and  returned  to  Dawley. 

On  our  road  thither  I  questioned  Bolingbroke  respecting 
Montreuil,  and  I  found  that,  as  I  had  surmised,  he  was  able  to 
give  me  some  information  of  that  arch-schemer.  Gerald's 
money  and  hereditary  influence  had  procured  tacit  connivance 

*  Pope  seems  to  have  been  rather  capricious  in  this  respect ;  but  in  general  he  must  be 
considered  open  to  the  sarcasm  of  displaying  the  bounteous  host  to  those  who  did  not  want 
a  dinner,  and  the  niggard  to  those  who  did. — Ei). 

t  This  beautiful  sentiment  is  to  be  found,  with  very  slight  alteration,  in  a  letter  from 
Bolingbroke  to  Swift.— Eo. 


DEVEREUX.  385 

at  the  Jesuit's  residence  in  England,  and  Montreuil  had  for 
some  years  led  a  quiet  and  unoffending  life  in  close  retirement. 
"  Lately,  however,"  said  Bolingbroke,  "  I  have  learned  that  the 
old  spirit  has  revived,  and  I  accidentally  heard,  three  days  ago, 
when  conversing  with  one  well  informed  on  state  matters,  that 
this  most  pure  administration  have  discovered  some  plot  or 
plots  with  which  Montreuil  is  connected  ;  I  believe  he  will  be 
apprehended  in  a  few  days." 

"And  where  lurks  he?" 

"He  was,  I  heard,  last  seen  in  the  neighborhood  of  your 
brother's  property  at  Devereux  Court,  and  I  imagine  it  probable 
that  he  is  still  in  that  neighborhood." 

This  intelligence  made  me  resolve  to  leave  Dawley  even 
earlier  than  I  had  intended,  and  I  signified  to  Lord  Boling- 
broke my  intention  of  quitting  him  by  sunrise  the  next 
morning.  He  endeavored  in  vain  to  combat  my  resolution. 
I  was  too  fearful  lest  Montreuil,  hearing  of  his  danger  from  the 
state,  might  baffle  my  vengeance  by  seeking  some  impenetrable 
asylum,  to  wish  to  subject  my  meeting  with  him,  and  with 
Gerald,  whose  co-operation  I  desired,  to  any  unnecessary 
delay.  I  took  leave  of  my  host  therefore  that  night,  and 
ordered  my  carriage  to  be  in  readiness  by  the  first  dawn  of 
morning. 


CHAPTER  VHL 

The  Plot  approaches  its  Denouement. 

'  Although  the  details  of  my  last  chapter  have  somewhat 
retarded  the  progress  of  that  denouement  with  which  this  volume 
is  destined  to  close,  yet  I  do  not  think  the  destined  reader  will 
regret  lingering  over  a  scene  in  which,  after  years  of  restless 
enterprise  and  exile,  he  beholds  the  asylum  which  fortune  had 
prepared  for  the  most  extraordinary  character  with  which  I 
have  adorned  these  pages. 

It  was  before  daybreak  that  I  commenced  my  journey.  The 
shutters  of  the  house  were  as  yet  closed  ;  the  gray  mists  rising 
slowly  from  the  earth,  and  the  cattle  couched  beneath  the  trees, 
th.e  cold,  but  breezeless  freshness  of  the  morning,  the  silence  of 
the  unwakened  birds,  all  gave  an  inexpressible  stillness  and 
quiet  to  the  scene.  The  horses  slowly  ascended  a  little  emi- 
nence, and  I  looked  from  the  window  of  the  carriage  on  the 
peaceful  retreat  I  had  left.  I  sighed  as  I  did  so,  and  a  sick 
sensation,  coupled  with  the  thought  of  Isora,  came  chill  upon 


386  DEVEREUX, 

my  heart.  No  man  happily  placed  in  this  social  world  can 
guess  the  feelings  of  envy  with  which  a  wanderer  like  me,  with- 
out tie  or  home,  and  for  whom  the  roving  eagerness  of  youth  is 
over,  surveys  those  sheltered  spots  in  which  the  breast  garners 
up  all  domestic  bonds,  its  household  and  holiest  delights;  the 
companioned  hearth,  the  smile  of  infancy,  and,  dearer  than  all, 
the  eye  that  glasses  our  purest,  our  tenderest,  our  most  secret 
thoughts;  these, — oh,  none  who  enjoy  them  know  how  they  for 
whom  they  are  not  have  pined  and  mourned  for  them  ! 

I  had  not  travelled  many  hours,  when,  upon  the  loneliest 
part  of  the  road,  my  carriage,  which  had  borne  me  without  an 
accident  from  Rome  to  London,  broke  down.  The  postillions 
said  there  was  a  small  inn  about  a  mile  from  the  spot ;  thither 
I  repaired  :  a  blacksmith  was  sent  for,  and  I  found  the  ac* 
cident  to  the  carriage  would  require  several  hours  to  repair. 
No  solitary  chaise  did  the  inn  afford;  but  the  landlord,  whd 
was  a  freeholder  and  a  huntsman,  boasted  one  valuable  and 
swift  horse,  which  he  declared  was  fit  for  an  emperor  or  a  high- 
wayman. I  was  too  impatient  of  delay  not  to  grasp  at  this  in- 
telligence. I  gave  mine  host  whatever  he  demanded  for  the 
loan  of  his  steed,  transferred  my  pistols  to  an  immense  pair  of 
holsters,  which  adorned  a  high  demipique  saddle,  wherewith 
he  obliged  me,  and,  within  an  hour  from  the  date  of  the  acci- 
cident,  recommenced  my  journey. 

The  evening  closed,  as  I  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
fellow  traveller.  He  was,  like  myself,  on  horseback.  He  wore 
a  short,  dark  gray  cloak,  a  long  wig  of  raven  hue,  and  a  large 
hat,  which,  flapping  over  his  face,  conspired,  with  the  increasing 
darkness,  to  allow  me  a  very  imperfect  survey  of  his  features. 
Twice  or  thrice  he  had  passed  me,  and  always  with  some  salu- 
tation, indicative  of  a  desire  for  further  acquaintance;  but  my 
mood  is  not  naturally  too  much  inclined  to  miscellaneous 
society,  and  I  was  at  that  time  peculiarly  covetous  of  my  own 
companionship.  I  had,  therefore,  given  but  a  brief  answer  to 
the  horseman's  courtesy,  and  had  ridden  away  from  him  with 
a  very  unceremonious  abruptness.  At  length,  when  he  had  come 
up  to  me  for  the  fourth  time,  and  for  the  fourth  time  had  ac* 
costed  me,  my  ear  caught  something  in  the  tones  of  his  voice 
which  did  not  seem  to  me  wholly  unfamiliar.  I  regarded  hinl 
with  more  attention  than  I  had  as  yet  done,  and  replied  to  him 
more  civilly  and  at  length.  Apparently  encouraged  by  this 
relaxation  from  my  reserve,  the  man  speedily  resumed  : 

"Your  horse,  sir,"  said  he,  "is  a  fine  animal,  but  he  seems 
Jaded: — you  have  ridden  far  to-day,  I'll  venture  to  guess." 


DEVEREUX.  387 

"  I  have,  sir;  but  the  town  where  I  shall  pass  the  night  is 
not  above  four  miles  distant,  I  believe." 

"  Hum — ha  I — you  sleep  at  D ,then  ?  "  said  the  horseman 

inquisitively. 

A  suspicion  came  across  me — we  were  then  entering  a  very 
lonely  road,  one  notoriously  infested  with  highwaymen.  My 
fellow  equestrian's  company  might  have  some  sinister  meaning 
in  it.  I  looked  to  my  holsters,  and  leisurely  taking  out  one  of 
my  pistols,  saw  to  its  priming,  and  returned  it  to  its  depository. 
The  horseman  noted  the  motion,  and  he  moved  his  horse  rather 
uneasily,  and  I  thought  timidly,  to  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

"You  travel  well  armed, sir,"  said  he,      ter  a  pause. 

"It  is  a  necessary  precaution,  sir,"  answered  I  composedly, 
**  in  a  road  one  is  not  familiar  with,  and  with  companions  one 
has  never  had  the  happiness  to  meet  before." 

*'  Ahem  ! — ahem  ! — Parbleu,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  you  allude 
to  me;  but  I  warrant  this  is  not  the  first  time  we  have  met." 

"  Ha  ! "  said  I,  riding  closer  to  my  fellow-traveller,  "  you 
know  me  then — and  we  have  met  before.  I  thought  I  recognized 
your  voice,  but  1  cannot  remember  when  or  where  I  last 
heard  it." 

"  Oh,  Count,  I  believe  it  was  only  by  accident  that  we  com- 
menced acquaintanceship,  and  only  by  accident,  you  see,  do 
we  now  resume  it.  But  I  perceive  that  I  intrude  on  your  soli- 
tude.    Farewell,  Count,  and  a  pleasant  night  at  your  inn." 

"  Not  so  fast,  sir,"  said  I,  laying  firm  hand  on  my  companion's 
shoulder,  *'  I  know  you  now,  and  I  thank  Providence  that  I 
have  found  you.  Marie  Oswald,  it  is  not  lightly  that  I  will 
part  with  you  !  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,  with  all  my  heart.  But  morbleu, 
Monsieur  le  Comie,  do  take  your  hand  from  my  shoulder — I  am 
a  nervous  man,  and  your  pistols  are  loaded — and  perhaps  you 
are  choleric  and  hasty.  I  assure  you  1  am  far  from  wishing  to 
part  with  you  abruptly,  for  I  have  watched  you  for  the  last 
two  days,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  honor  of  this  interview." 

"Indeed  !  your  wish  will  save  both  of  us  a  world  of  trouble. 
I  believe  you  may  serve  me  efifectually — if  so,  you  will  find  me 
more  desirous  and  more  able  than  ever  to  show  my  gratitude." 

"  Sir,  you  are  too  good,"  quoth  Mr.  Oswald,  with  an  air  far 
more  respectful  than  he  had  yet  shown  me.  "  Let  us  make  to 
your  inn,  and  there  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  receive  your  com- 
mands." So  saying,  Marie  pushed  on  his  horse,  and  I  urged 
my  own  to  the  same  expedition. 

"  But  tell  me,"  said  I,  as  we  rode  on,  "  why  you  have  wished 


388  DEVEREUX. 

to  meet  me? — me   whom   you  so    cruelly  deserted   and   for- 
sook ?  " 

"  0\parbleu — spare  me  there  !  it  was  not  I  who  deserted 
you — I  was  compelled  to  fly — death — murder — on  one  side; 
safety,  money,  and  a  snug  place  in  Italy,  as  a  lay-brother  of  the 
Institute,  on  the  other !  What  could  I  do  !  You  were  ill  in 
bed — not  likely  to  recover — not  able  to  protect  me  from  my 
present  peril — in  a  state  that  in  all  probability  never  would  re- 
quire my  services  for  the  future.  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  it 
was  not  desertion — that  is  a  cruel  word — it  was  self-preserva- 
tion, and  common  prudence." 

"Well,"  said  I,  complaisantly,  "you  apply  words  better  than 
I  applied  them.  And  how  long  have  you  been  returned  to 
England  ?" 

"  Some  few  weeks.  Count,  not  more.  I  was  in  London  when 
you  arrived — I  heard  of  that  event — I  immediately  repaired  to 
your  hotel — you  were  gone  to  my  Lord  Bolingbroke's — I  fol- 
lowed you  thither — you  had  left  Dawley  when  I  arrived  there — 
I  learnt  your  route  and  followed  you.  Parbleu  and  morbleu,  I 
find  you,  and  you  take  me  for  a  highwayman  !  " 

"  Pardon  my  mistake  :  the  clearest-sighted  men  are  subject 
to  commit  such  errors,  and  the  most  innocent  to  suffer  by  them. 
So  yiowXxQvW  persuaded  yovi  to  leave  England — did  he  also  per- 
suade you  to  return  ?  " 

"  No — I  was  charged  by  the  Institute  with  messages  to  him 
and  others.  But  we  are  near  the  town.  Count,  let  us  defer  our 
conversation  till  then." 

We  entered  D ,  put  up  our  horses,  called  for  an  apart- 
ment— to  which  summons  Oswald  added  another  for  wine— ^ 
and  then  the  virtuous  Marie  commenced  his  explanations.  I 
was  deeply  anxious  to  ascertain  whether  Gerald  had  ever  been 
made  acquainted  with  the  fraud  by  which  he  had  obtained 
possession  of  the  estates  of  Devereux  ;  and  I  found  that,  from 
Desmarais,  Oswald  had  learned  all  that  had  occurred  to  Gerald 
since  Marie  had  left  England.  From  Oswald's  prolix  com- 
munication, I  ascertained  that  Gerald  was,  during  the  whole 
of  the  interval  between  my  uncle's  death  and  my  departure 
from  England,  utterly  unacquainted  with  the  fraud  of  tlie  will. 
He  readily  believed  that  my  uncle  had  found  good  reason  for 
altering  his  intentions  with  respect  to  me;  and  my  law  pro- 
ceedings, and  violent  conduct  towards  himself,  only  excited  his 
indignation,  not  aroused  his  suspicions.  During  this  time,  hfe 
lived  entirely  in  the  country,  indulging  the  rural  hospitality 
and  the  rustic  .sports  which  he  especially  affected,  and  secretly, 


DEVEREUX.  389 

but  deeply,  involved  with  Montreuil  in  political  intrigue>s.  All 
this  time  the  Abbe  made  no  farther  use  of  him  than  to  borrow 
whatever  sums  he  required  for  his  purposes.  Isora's  death,  and 
the  confused  story  of  the  document  given  me  by  Oswald,  Mon- 
treuil had  interpreted  to  Gerald  according  to  the  interpretation 
of  the  world  ;  viz.,  he  had  thrown  the  suspicion  upon  Oswald, 
as  a  common  villain,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  my  credulity 
about  the  will — introduced  himself  into  the  house  on  that  pre- 
tence— attempted  the  robbery  of  the  most  valuable  articles 
therein — which,  indeed,  he  had  succeeded  in  abstracting — and 
who,  on  my  awaking  and  contesting  with  him  and  his  accom- 
plice, had,  in  self-defence,  inflicted  the  wounds  which  had 
ended  in  my  delirium,  and  Isora's  death.  This  part  of  my  tale 
Montreuil  never  contradicted,  and  Gerald  believed  it  to  the 
present  day.  The  affair  of  1715  occurred;  the  government, 
aware  of  Gerald's  practices,  had  anticipated  his  design  of  join- 
ing the  rebels — he  was  imprisoned — no  act  of  overt  guilt  on  his 
part  was  proved,  or  at  least  brought  forward — and  the  govern- 
ment not  being  willing,  perhaps,  to  proceed  to  violent  measures 
against  a  very  young  man,  and  the  head  of  a  very  powerful 
house,  connected  with  more  than  thirty  branches  of  the  English 
hereditary  nobility,  he  received  his  acquittal  just  before  Sir 
William  Wyndham,  and  some  other  suspected  tories,  received 
their  own. 

Prior  to  the  breaking  out  of  that  rebellion,  and  on  the  eve  of 
Montreuil's  departure  for  Scotland,  the  priest  summoned  Des- 
marais,  whom,  it  will  be  remembered,  I  had  previously  dis- 
missed, and  whom  Montreuil  had  since  employed  in  various 
errands,  and  informed  him  that  he  had  obtained,  for  his  services, 
the  same  post  under  Gerald  which  the  Fatalist  had  filled  under 
me.  Soon  after  the  failure  of  the  rebellion,  Devereux  Court 
was  destroyed  by  accidental  fire  ;  and  Montreuil,  who  had 
come  over  in  disguise,  in  order  to  renew  his  attacks  on  my 
brother's  coffers  (attacks  to  which  Gerald  yielded  very  sullenly, 
and  with  many  assurances  that  he  would  no  more  incur  the 
danger  of  political  and  seditious  projects),  now  advised  Gerald 
to  go  up  to  London,  and,  in  order  to  avoid  the  suspicion  of  the 
government,  to  mix  freely  in  the  gayeties  of  the  court.  Gerald 
readily  consented  ;  for,  though  internally  convinced  that  the 
charms  of  the  metropolis  were  not  equal  to  those  of  the  country, 
yet  he  liked  change,  and  Devereux  Court  being  destroyed,  he 
shuddered  a  little  at  the  idea  of  rebuilding  so  enormous  a  pile. 
Before  Gerald  left  the  old  tower  {my  tower),  which  was  alone 
spared  by  the  flames,  and  at  which  he  had  resided,  though 


39©  DEVEREUX. 

without  his  household,  rather  than  quit  a  place  where  there  was 
such  "excellent  shooting,"  Montreuil  said  to  Desmarais,  "This 
ungrateful  seigneur  de  village  already  shows  himself  tlie  niggard  ; 
he  must  know  what  we  know — that  is  our  only  sure  hold  of  him — 
but  he  must  not  know  it  yet," — and  he  proceeded  to  observe 
that  it  was  for  the  hot-beds  of  courtly  luxury  to  mellow  and 
hasten  an  opportunity  for  the  disclosure.  He  instructed  Des- 
marais to  see  that  Gerald  (whom  even  a  valet,  at  least  one  so 
artful  as  Desmarais,  might  easily  influence)  partook  to  excess 
of  every  pleasure, — at  least  of  every  pleasure  which  a  gentleman 
might,  without  derogation  to  his  dignity,  enjoy.  Gerald  went 
to  town,  and  very  soon  became  all  that  Montreuil  desired. 

Montreuil  came  again  to  England  ;  his  great  project,  Al- 
beroni's  project,  had  failed.  Banished  France  and  Spain,  and 
excluded  Italy,  he  was  desirous  of  obtaining  an  asylum  in  Eng- 
land, until  he  could  negotiate  a  return  to  Paris.  For  the  first 
of  these  purposes  (the  asylum)  interest  was  requisite  ;  for  the 
latter  (the  negotiation)  money  was  desirable.  He  came  to  seek 
both  necessaries  in  Gerald  Devereux.  Gerald  had  already  ar- 
rived at  that  prosperous  state  when  money  is  not  lightly  given 
away.  A  dispute  arose  ;  and  Montreuil  raised  the  veil,  and 
showed  the  heir  on  what  terms  his  estates  were  held. 

Rightly  Montreuil  had  read  the  human  heart.  So  long  as 
Gerald  lived  in  the  country,  and  tasted  not  the  full  enjoyments 
of  his  great  wealth,  it  would  have  been  highly  perilous  to  have 
made  this  disclosure  ;  for,  though  Gerald  had  no  great  love  for 
me,  and  was  bold  enough  to  run  any  danger,  yet  he  was  neither 
a  Desmarais  nor  a  Montreuil.  He  was  that  most  capricious 
thing,  a  man  of  honor ;  and  at  that  day,  he  would  instantly 
have  given  up  the  estate  to  me,  and  Montreuil  and  the  philoso- 
pher to  the  hangman.  But,  after  two  or  three  years  of  every 
luxury  that  wealth  could  purchase — after  living  in  those  circles, 
too,  where  wealth  is  the  highest  possible  merit,  and  public 
opinion,  therefore,  only  honors  the  rich,  fortune  became  far  more 
valuable,  and  the  conscience  far  less  nice.  Living  at  Devereux 
Court,  Gerald  had  only  ;^3o,ooo  a  year;  living  in  London,  he 
had  all  that  ^30,000  a  year  can  purchase  ;  a  very  great  differ- 
ence this  indeed  !  Honor  is  a  fine  bulwark  against  a  small 
force ;  but,  unbacked  by  other  principle,  it  is  seldom  well 
manned  enough  to  resist  a  large  one.  When,  therefore,  Mon- 
treuil showed  Gerald  that  he  could  lose  his  estate  in  an  instant — 
that  the  world  would  never  give  him  credit  for  innocence,  when 
guilt  would  have  conferred  on  him  such  advantages — that  he 
would  therefore  part  with  all  those  et  coetera  which,  now  in  the 


DEVEREUX.  391 

very  prime  of  life,  made  his  whole  idea  of  human  enjoyments — 
that  he  would  no  longer  be  the  rich,  the  powerful,  the  honored, 
the  magnificent,  the  envied,  the  idolized  lord  of  thousands,  but 
would  sink  at  once  into  a  younger  brother,  dependent  on  the 
man  he  most  hated  for  his  very  subsistence — since  his  debts 
would  greatly  exceed  his  portion — and  an  object  through  life 
of  contemptuous  pity,  or  of  covert  suspicion — that  all  this  change 
could  happen  at  a  word  of  Montreuil's,  what  wonder  that  he 
should  be  staggered, — should  hesitate  and  yield  ?  Montreuil 
obtained,  then,  whatever  sums  he  required  ;  and,  through 
Gerald's  influence,  pecuniary  and  political,  procured  from  the 
minister  a  tacit  permission  for  him  to  remain  in  England,  under 
an  assumed  name,  and  in  close  retirement.  Since  then,  Mon- 
treuil (though  secretly  involved  in  treasonable  practices)  had 
appeared  to  busy  himself  solely  in  negotiating  a  pardon  at 
Paris.  Gerald  had  lived  the  life  of  a  man  who,  if  he  has  parted 
with  peace  of  conscience,  will  make  the  best  of  the  bargain,  by 
procuring  every  kind  of  pleasure  in  exchange  ;  and  le  petit  Jean 
Desmarais,  useful  to  both  priest  and  spendthrift,  had  passed 
his  time  very  agreeably — laughing  at  his  employers,  studying 
philosophy,  and  filling  his  pockets ;  for  I  need  scarcely  add 
that  Gerald  forgave  him  without  much  difficulty  for  his  share 
in  the  forgery,  A  man,  as  Oswald  shrewdly  observed,  is  sel- 
dom inexorable  to  those  crimes  by  which  he  has  profited.  "  And 
where  lurks  Montreuil  now  ?  "  I  asked  ;  "  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Devereux  Court  ?  " 

Oswald  looked  at  me  with  some  surprise.  "  How  learned 
you  that,  sir?  It  is  true.  He  lives  quietly  and  privately  in  the 
vicinity.  The  woods  around  the  house,  the  caves  in  the  beach, 
and  the  little  isle  opposite  the  castle  afforded  him  in  turn  an 
asylum  ;  and  the  convenience  with  which  correspondence  with 
France  can  be  there  carried  on  makes  the  scene  of  his  retire- 
ment peculiarly  adapted  to  his  purposes," 

I  now  began  to  question  Oswald  respecting  himself ;  for  I 
was  not  warmly  inclined  to  place  implicit  trust  in  the  services 
of  a  man  who  had  before  shown  himself  at  once  mercenary 
and  timid.  There  was  little  cant  or  disguise  about  that  gentle- 
man ;  he  made  few  pretences  to  virtues  which  he  did  not 
possess  ;  and  he  seemed  now,  both  by  wine  and  familiarity, 
peculiarly  disposed  to  be  frank.  It  was  he  who  in  Italy 
(among  various  other  and  less  private  commissions)  had 
been  appointed  by  Montreuil  to  watch  over  Aubrey  ;  on  my 
brother's  death,  he  had  hastened  to  England,  not  only  to  ap- 
prise Montreuil  of  that  event,  but  charged  with  some  especial 


39«  DEVEREUX, 

orders  to  him  from  certain  members  of  the  Institute.  He  had 
found  Montreuil  busy,  restless,  intriguing,  even  in  seclusion, 
and  cheered  by  a  recent  promise  from  Fleuri  himself  that  he 
sliould  speedily  obtain  pardon  and  recall.  It  was  at  this  part 
of  Oswald's  story  easy  to  perceive  the  causes  of  his  renewed 
confidence  in  me.  Montreuil,  engaged  in  new  plans  and  schemes, 
at  once  complicated  and  vast,  paid  but  slight  attention  to  the 
wrecks  of  his  past  projects.  Aubrey  dead — myself  abroad — 
Gerald  at  his  command,  he  perceived,  in  our  house,  no  cause 
for  caution  or  alarm.  This  apparently  rendered  him  less  care- 
ful of  retaining  the  venal  services  of  Oswald,  than  his  knowl- 
edge of  character  should  have  made  him  ;  and  when  that 
gentleman,  then  in  London,  accidentally  heard  of  my  sudden 
arrival  in  this  country,  he  at  once  perceived  how  much  more 
to  his  interest  it  would  be  to  serve  me  than  to  maintain  an  ill- 
remunerated  fidelity  to  Montreuil.  In  fact,  as  I  have  since 
learned,  the  priest's  discretion  was  less  to  blame  than  I  then 
imagined  ;  for  Oswald  was  of  a  remarkably  imprudent,  profli- 
gate, and  spendthrift  turn,  and  his  demands  for  money  were 
considerably  greater  than  the  value  of  his  services  ;  or  perhaps, 
as  Montreuil  thought,  when  Aubrey  no  longer  lived,  than  the 
consequences  of  his  silence.  When,  therefore,  I  spoke  seri- 
ously to  my  new  ally  of  my  desire  of  wreaking  ultimate  justice 
on  the  crimes  of  Montreuil,  I  found  that  his  zeal  was  far  from 
being  chilled  by  my  determination — nay,  the  very  cowardice  of 
the  man  made  him  ferocious  ;  and  the  moment  he  resolved  to 
betray  Montreuil,  his  fears  of  the  priest's  vengeance  made  him 
eager  to  destroy  where  he  betrayed.  I  am  not  addicted  to  un- 
necessary procrastination.  Of  the  unexpected  evidence  I  had 
found  I  was  most  eager  to  avail  myself.  I  saw  at  once  how 
considerably  Oswald's  testimony  would  lessen  any  difficulty  I 
might  have  in  an  explanation  with  Gerald,  as  well  as  in  bring- 
ing Montreuil  to  justice  ;  and  the  former  measure  seemed  to 
me  necessary  to  ensure  or  at  least  expedite  the  latter.  I 
proposed,  therefore,  to  Oswald  that  he  should  immediately  ac- 
company me  to  the  house  in  which  Gerald  was  then  a  visitor  ; 
the  honest  Marie,  conditioning  only  for  another  bottle,  which 
he  termed  a  travelling  comforter,  readily  acceded  to  my  wish. 
I  immediately  procured  a  chaise  and  horses,  and  in  less  than 
two  hours  from  the  time  we  entered  the  inn,  we  were  on  the 
road  to  Gerald.  What  an  impulse  to  the  wheel  of  destiny  had 
the  event  of  that  one  day  given  ! 

At  another  time  I  might  have  gleaned  amusement  from  the 
shrewd  roguery  of  my  companion,  but  he  found  me  then  but  a 


deVereux.  393 

dull  listener.  I  served  him  in  truth  as  men  of  his  stamp  are 
ordinarily  served  ;  so  soon  as  I  had  extracted  from  him  what- 
ever was  meet  for  present  use,  I  favored  him  with  little  farther 
attention.  He  had  exhausted  all  the  communications  it  was 
necessary  for  me  to  know;  so,  in  the  midst  of  a  long  story 
about  Italy,  Jesuits,  and  the  wisdom  of  Marie  Oswald,  I  affected 
to  fall  asleep  ;  my  companion  soon  followed  my  example  in 
earnest,  and  left  me  to  meditate  undisturbed  over  all  that  I 
had  heard,  and  over  the  schemes  now  the  most  promising  of 
success.  I  soon  taught  myself  to  look  with  a  lenient  eye  on 
Gerald's  after-connivance  in  Montreuil's  forgery  ;  and  I  felt 
that  I  owed  to  my  surviving  brother  so  large  an  arrear  of  af- 
fection for  the  long  injustice  I  had  rendered  him,  that  I  was 
almost  pleased  to  find  something  set  upon  the  opposite  score. 
All  men,  perhaps,  would  rather  forgive  than  be  forgiven,  I 
resolved,  therefore,  to  affect  ignorance  of  Gerald's  knowledge 
of  the  forgery,  and  even  should  he  confess  it,  to  exert  all  my 
art  to  steal  from  the  confession  its  shame.  From  this  train  of 
reflection  my  mind  soon  directed  itself  to  one  far  fiercer  and 
more  intense ;  and  I  felt  my  heart  pause,  as  if  congealing  into 
marble,  when  I  thought  of  Montreuil  and  anticipated  justice. 

It  was  nearly  noon  the  following  day  when  we  arrived  at 

Lord 's  house.     We  found   that  Gerald    had  left  it   the 

day  before  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  field-sports  at  Devereux 
Court,  and  thither  we  instantly  proceeded. 

It  has  often  seemed  to  me  that  if  there  be,  as  certain  ancient 
philosophers  fabled,  one  certain  figure  pervading  all  nature, 
human  and  universal,  it  is  the  circle.  Round  in  one  vast  mo- 
notony, one  eternal  gyration,  roll  the  orbs  of  space.  Thus 
moves  the  spirit  of  creative  life,  kindling,  progressing,  ma- 
turing, decaying,  perishing,  reviving  and  rolling  again,  and 
so  on  forever  through  the  same  course  ;  and  thus  even  would 
seem  to  revolve  the  mysterious  mechanism  of  human  events 
and  actions.  Age,  ere  it  returns  to  "the  second  childishness, 
the  mere  oblivion  "  from  which  it  passes  to  the  grave,  returns 
also  to  the  memories  and  the  thoughts  of  youth  ;  its  buried  loves 
arise — its  past  friendships  rekindle.  The  wheels  of  the  tired 
machine  are  past  the  meridian,  and  the  arch  through  which 
they  now  decline  has  a  correspondent  likeness  to  the  opposing 
segment  through  which  they  had  borne  upward  in  eager- 
ness and  triumph.  Thus  it  is,  too,  that  we  bear  within  us  an 
irresistible  attraction  to  our  earliest  home.  Thus  it  is  that  we 
say,  "It  matters  not  where  our  mid-course  is  run,  but  we  will 
die  in   the  place  where  we  were  born  ;  in  the  point  of  space. 


394  DEVEREtJX. 

whence  began  the  circle,  there  also  shall  /'/  end!'*  This  is  the 
grand  orbit  through  which  Mortality  passes  only  once  ;  but 
the  same  figure  may  pervade  all  through  which  it  moves  on  its 
journey  to  the  grave.  *  Thus  one  peculiar  day  of  the  round 
year  has  been  to  some  an  era,  always  coloring  life  with  an 
event.  Thus  to  others  some  peculiar  placehasbeen  the  theatre 
of  strange  action,  influencing  all  existence  whenever  in  the  re- 
currence of  destiny  that  place  has  been  revisited.  Thus  was 
it  said  by  an  arch-sorcerer  of  old,  whose  labors  yet  exist, 
though  perhaps  at  the  moment  I  write  there  are  not  three 
living  beings  who  know  of  their  existence — that  there  breathes 
not  that  man  wlio  would  not  find,  did  he  minutely  investigate 
the  events  of  life,  that  in  some  fixed  and  distinct  spot,  or  hour, 
or  person,  there  lived,  though  shrouded  and  obscure,  the  per- 
vading demon  of  his  fate  ;  and  whenever  in  their  several  paths 
the  two  circles  of  being  touched,  that  moment  made,  the  un- 
noticed epoch  of  coming  prosperity  or  evil.  I  remember  well 
that  this  bewildering,  yet  not  unsolemn  reflection,  or  rather 
fancy,  was  in  my  mind,  as  after  the  absence  of  many  years  I  saw 
myself  hastening  to  the  home  of  my  boyhood,  and  cherishing 
the  fiery  hope  of  there  avenging  the  doom  of  that  love  which  I 
had  there  conceived.  Deeply  and  in  silence  did  I  brood  over 
the  dark  shapes  which  my  thoughts  engendered  ;  and  I  woke 
not  from  my  reverie  till,  as  the  gray  of  the  evening  closed  around 
us,  we  entered  the  domains  of  Devereux  Court.  The  road 
was  rough  and  stony,  and  the  horses  moved  slowly  on.  How 
familiar  was  everything  before  me !  the  old  pollards  which  lay 
scattered  in  dense  groups  on  either  side,  and  which  had  lived 
on  from  heir  to  heir,  secure  in  the  little  temptation  they  afforded 
to  cupidity,  seemed  to  greet  me  with  a  silent  but  intelligible 
welcome.  Their  leaves  fell  around  us  in  the  autumn  air,  and 
the  branches  as  they  waved  towards  me  seemed  to  say,  "  Thou 
art  returned,  and  thy  change  is  like  our  own  ;  the  green  leaves 
of  thy  heart  have  fallen  from  thee  one  by  one — like  us  thou  sur- 
vivest,  but  thou  art  desolate  !"  The  hoarse  cry  of  the  rooks 
gathering  to  their  rest  came  fraught  with  the  music  of  young 
associations  on  my  ear.  Many  a  time  in  the  laughing  spring 
had  I  lain  in  these  groves  watching,  in  the  young  brood  of  those 
citizens  of  air,  a  mark  for  my  childish  skill  and   careless  disre- 

*  I  have  not  assumed  the  editorial  license  to  omit  these  incoherent  observations,  notwith- 
standing their  close  approximation  lo  jargon,  not  only  because  they  seem  to  occur  with  a 
sort  of  dramatic  propriety  in  the  winding  up  of  the  count's  narrative, — the  reappearance  of 
Oswald  — the  return  to  Devereux  Court,  and  the  scene  that  happens  there  ;  but  also  because 
they  appear  to  be  strikingly  characteristic  of  the  vague  aspirings,  the  restless  and  half- 
analyzed  longings  after  something  "  beyond  the  visible  diurnal  sphere,"  which  are  so  inti- 
mately blended  with  the  worldlier  traits  of  the  Count's  peculiar  organization  of  mind,     £.0, 


PEVEREUX.  395 

gard  of  life.  We  acquire  raercy  as  we  acquire  thought.  I  would 
not  now  have  harmed  one  of  those  sable  creatures  for  a  king's 
ransom  ! 

As  we  cleared  the  more  wooded  belt  of  the  park,  and  entered 
the  smooth  space,  on  which  the  trees  stood  alone  and  at  rarer 
intervals,  while  tiie  red  clouds,  still  tinged  with  the  hues  of  the 
departed  sun,  hovered  on  the  far  and  upland  landscape — like 
Hope  flushing  over  Futurity — a  mellowed,  yet  rapid  murmur, 
distinct  from  the  more  distant  dashing  of  the  sea,  broke  abrupt- 
ly upon  my  ear.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  brook  whose  banks 
had  been  the  dearest  haunt  of  my  childhood  ;  and  now,  as  it 
burst  thus  suddenly  upon  me,  I  longed  to  be  alone,  that  1  might 
have  bowed  down  my  head  and  wept  as  if  it  had  been  the  wel- 
come of  a  living  thing  !  At  once,  and  as  by  a  word,  the  hard- 
ened lava,  the  congealed  stream  of  the  soul's  Etna,  was  up- 
lifted from  my  memory,  and  the  bowers  and  palaces  of  old,  the 
world  of  a  gone  day,  lay  before  me  !  With  how  wild  an  enthu' 
siasm  had  1  apostrophized  that  stream  on  the  day  in  which  I 
first  resolved  to  leave  its  tranquil  regions  and  fragrant  margin 
for  the  tempest  and  tumult  of  the  world.  On  that  same  eve, 
too,  had  Aubrey  and  I  taken  sweet  counsel  together — on  that 
same  eve  had  we  sworn  to  protect,  to  love,  and  to  cherish  one 
another  ! — and  now  ! — I  saw  the  very  mound  on  which  we  had 
sat — a  solitary  deer  made  it  his  couch,  and  as  the  carriage  ap- 
proached, the  deer  rose,  and  I  then  saw  that  he  had  been 
wounded,  perhaps  in  some  contest  with  his  tribe,  and  that  he 
could  scarcely  stir  from  the  spot.  I  turned  my  face  away,  and 
the  remains  of  my  ancestral  house  rose  gradually  in  view.  That 
house  was  indeed  changed ;  a  wide  and  black  heap  of  ruins 
spread  around  ;  the  vast  hall,  with  its  oaken  rafters  and  huge 
hearth,  was  no  more — 1  missed  that,  and  I  cared  not  for  the  rest. 
The  long  galleries,  the  superb  chambers,  the  scenes  of  revel- 
ry or  of  pomp,  were  like  the  court  companions  who  amuse,  yet 
attach  us  not;  but  the  hall— the  old  hall — the  old  hospitable 
hall — had  been  as  a  friend  in  all  seasons,  and  to  all  comers,  and 
its  mirth  had  been  as  open  to  all  as  the  heart  of  its  last  owner  ! 
My  eyes  wandered  from  the  place  where  it  had  been,  and  the 
tall,  lone,  gray  tower,  consecrated  to  my  ill-fated  namesake,  and 
in  which  my  own  apartments  had  been  situated,  rose,  like  the 
last  of  a  warrior  band,  stern,  gaunt,  and  solitary,  over  the  ruins 
around. 

The  carriage  now^  passed  more  rapidly  over  the  neglected 
road,  and  wound  where  the  ruins,  cleared  on  either  side,  per- 
mitted access  to  the  tower,   .  In  two  minutes  more  I  was  in  the 


396  DEVEREUX. 

same  chamber  with  my  only  surviving  brother.  Oh,  why — why 
can  I  not  dwell  upon  that  scene — that  embrace,  that  reconcilia- 
tion ? — alas  I  the  wound  is  not  yet  scarred  over. 

I  found  Gerald,  at  first,  haughty  and  sullen  ;  he  expected 
my  reproaches  and  defiance — against  them  he  was  hardened ; 
he  was  not  prepared  for  my  prayers  for  our  future  friendship, 
and  my  grief  for  our  past  enmity,  and  he  melted  at  once  ! 

But  let  me  hasten  over  this.  I  had  well-nigh  forgot  that  at 
the  close  of  my  history  I  should  find  one  remembrance  so  en- 
dearing, and  one  pang  so  keen.  RapidJy  I  sketched  to  Gerald 
the  ill  fate  of  Aubrey  ;  but  lingeringly  did  I  dwell  upon  Mon- 
treuil's  organized  and  most  baneful  influence  over  him,  and 
over  us  all ;  and  1  endeavored  to  arouse  in  Gerald  some  sympa- 
thy with  my  own  indignation  against  that  villain.  I  succeeded 
so  far  as  to  make  him  declare  that  he  was  scarcely  less  desir- 
ous of  justice  than  myself  ;  but  there  was  an  embarrassment  in 
his  tone  of  which  I  was  at  no  loss  to  perceive  the  cause.  To 
accuse  Montreuil  publicly  of  his  forgery  might  ultimately  bring 
to  light  Gerald's  latter  knowledge  of  the  fraud.  I  hastened  to 
say  that  there  was  now  no  necessity  to  submit  to  a  court  of 
justice  a  scrutiny  into  our  private,  gloomy,  and  eventful  records. 
No,  from  Oswald's  communications  I  had  learned  enough  to 
prove  that  Bolingbroke  had  been  truly  informed,  and  that  Mon- 
treuil had  still,  and  within  the  few  last  weeks,  been  deeply  in- 
volved in  schemes  of  treason — full  proof  of  which  could  be  ad- 
duced, far  more  than  sufficient  to  ensure  his  death  by  the  pub- 
lic executioner.     Upon  this  charge  I  proposed  at  the  nearest 

town  (the  memorable  sea-port  of )  to  accuse  him,  and  to 

obtain  a  warrant  for  his  immediate  apprehension — upon  this 
charge  I  proposed  alone  to  proceed  against  him,  and  by  it  alone 
to  take  justice  upon  his  more  domestic  crimes. 

My  brother  yielded  at  last  his  consent  to  my  suggestions. 
"  I  understand,"  said  I,  "  that  Montreuil  lurks  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  these  ruins,  or  in  the  opposite  islet.  Know  you  if  he 
has  made  his  asylum  in  either  at  this  present  time  ? " 

"No,  my  brother,"  answered  Gerald,  "but  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  he  is  in  our  immediate  vicinity,  for  I  received  a 

letter  from  him  three  days  ago,  when  at  Lord 's,  urging  a 

request  that  I  would  give  him  a  meeting  here,  at  my  earliest 
leisure,  previous  to  his  leaving  England." 

"  Has  he  really  then  obtained  permission  to  return  to  France  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Gerald,  "he  informed  me  in  this  letter  that 
he  had  just  received  intelligence  of  his  pardon." 

"May  it  fit  him  the  better,"  said  I,  with  a  stern  smile,  "for 


DEVEREUX.  397 

a  more  lasting  condemnation.  But  if  this  be  true  we  have  not 
a  moment  to  lose  :  a  man  so  habitually  vigilant  and  astute  will 
speedily  learn  my  visit  hither,  and  forfeit  even  his  appointment 
with  you,  should  he,  which  is  likely  enough,  entertain  any  sus- 
picion of  our  reconciliation  with  each  other — moreover,  he  may 
hear  that  the  government  have  discovered  his  designs,  and  may 
instantly  secure  the  means  of  flight.  Let  me,  therefore,  im- 
mediately repair  to ,  and  obtain  a  warrant  against  him,  as 

well  as  officers  to  assist  our  search.  In  the  mean  while  you 
shall  remain  here,  and  detain  him,  should  he  visit  you  : — but 
where  is  the  accomplice? — let  us  seize  him  instantly,  for  I  con- 
clude he  is  with  you  !  " 

**  What,  Desmarais  ?"  rejoined  Gerald.  "  Yes,  he  is  the  only 
servant,  beside  the  old  portress,  which  these  poor  ruins  will 
allow  me  to  entertain  in  the  same  dwelling  with  myself  :  the 

rest  of  my  suite  are  left  behind  at  Lord 's.     But  Desmarais 

is  not  now  within  ;  he  went  out  about  two  hours  ago." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  I,  "  in  all  likelihood  to  meet  the  priest — shall 
we  wait  his  return,  and  extort  some  information  of  Montreuil's 
lurking-hole  ? " 

Before  Gerald  could  answer,  we  heard  a  noise  without,  and 
presently  I  distinguished  the  bland  tones  of  the  hypocritical 
Fatalist,  in  soft  expostulation  with  the  triumphant  voice  of  Mr. 
Marie  Oswald.  I  hastened  out,  and  discovered  that  the  lay- 
brother,  whom  I  had  left  in  the  chaise,  having  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  valet  gliding  among  the  ruins,  had  recognized,  seized, 
and  by  the  help  of  the  postillions,  dragged  him  to  the  door  of 
the  tower.  The  moment  Desmarais  saw  me,  he  ceased  to 
struggle  :  he  met  my  eye  with  a  steady,  but  not  disrespectful, 
firmness  ;  he  changed  not  even  the  habitual  hue  of  his  coun- 
tenance— he  remained  perfectly  still  in  the  hands  of  his  arrest- 
ers ;  and  if  there  was  any  vestige  of  his  mind  discoverable  in 
his  sallow  features  and  glittering  eye,  it  was  not  the  sign  of 
fear,  or  confusion,  or  even  surprise  ;  but  a  ready  promptness 
to  meet  danger,  coupled,  perhaps,  with  a  little  doubt  whether 
to  defy  or  to  seek  first  to  diminish  it. 

Long  did  I  gaze  upon  him — struggling  with  internal  rage  and 
loathing — the  mingled  contempt  and  desire  of  destruction  with 
which  we  gaze  upon  the  erect  aspect  of  some  small,  but  venom- 
ous and  courageous  reptile — long  did  I  gaze  upon  him  before  I 
calmed  and  collected  my  voice  to  speak  : 

"  So  I  have  thee  at  last  !  First  comes  the  base  tool,  and  that 
will  I  first  break,  before  I  lop  off  the  guiding  hand." 

"So  please  Monsieur  my  Lord  the  Count,"  answered  Des- 


398  DEVEREUX, 

niarais,  bowing  to  the  ground  ;  **  the  tool  is  a  file,  and  it  would 
be  useless  to  bite  against  it." 

"We  will  see  that,"  said  I,  drawing  my  sword  :  "prepare  to 
die  !  "  and  I  pointed  the  blade  to  his  throat  witli  so  sudden  and 
menacing  a  gesture  that  his  eyes  closed  involuntarily,  and  the 
blood  left  his  thin  cheek  as  white  as  ashes :  but  he  shrank  not:. 

"  If  Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  smile,  "«'/// kill  his 
poor  old,  faithful  servant,  let  him  strike.  Fate  is  not  to  be  re- 
sisted ;  and  prayers  are  useless  ! " 

"  Oswald,"  said  I,  "  release  your  prisoner ;  wait  here,  and 
keep  strict  watch.     Jean  Desmarais,  follow  me  !  " 

I  ascended  the  stairs,  and  Desmarais  followed.  "  Now,"  I 
said,  when  he  was  alone  with  Gerald  and  myself,  "  your  days 
are  numbered  :  you  will  fall,  not  by  my  hand,  but  by  that  of 
the  executioner.  Not  only  your  forgery,  but  your  robbery,  your 
abetment  of  murder,  are  known  to  me  ;  your  present  lord,  with 
an  indignation  equal  to  my  own,  surrenders  you  to  justice. 
Have  you  aught  to  urge,  not  in  defence — for  to  that  I  will  not 
listen — but  in  atonement  ?  Can  you  now  commit  any  act  which 
will  cause  me  to  forego  justice  on  those  which  you  have  com- 
mitted ?  "  Desmarais  hesitated.  "  Speak,"  said  I.  He  raised 
his  eyes  to  mine  with  an  inquisitive  and  wistful  look. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  wretch,  with  his  obsequious  smile, 
"  Monsieur  has  travelled — has  shone — has  succeeded — Monsieur 
must  have  made  enemies  :  let  him  name  them,  and  his  poorold 
faithful  servant  will  do  his  best  to  become  the  humble  instru- 
ment of  \}i\€\x  fate  !" 

Gerald  drew  himself  aside,  and  shuddered.  Perhaps  till  then 
he  had  not  been  fully  aware  how  slyly  murder,  as  well  as  fraud, 
can  lurk  beneath  urbane  tones  and  laced  ruffles. 

"  I  have  no  enemy,"  said  I,  "but  one  ;  and  the  hangman  will 
do  my  office  upon  him  ;  but  point  out  to  me  the  exact  spot 
where  at  this  moment  he  is  concealed,  and  you  shall  have  full 
leave  to  quit  this  country  forever.  That  enemy  is  Julian  Mon- 
treuil  !  " 

"Ah,  ah!"  said  Desmarais  musingly,  and  in  a  tone  very 
different  from  that  in  which  he  usually  spoke  ;  "must  it  be  so, 
indeed  ?  For  twenty  years  of  youth  and  manhood,  I  have  clung 
to  that  man,  and  woven  my  destiny  with  his,  because  I  believed 
him  born  under  the  star  which  shines  on  statesmen  and  on 
pontiffs.  Does  dread  Necessity  now  impel  me  to  betray  him?— 
Him,  the  only  man  I  ever  loved.  So — so — so  !  Count  Dever- 
<ux,  strike  me  to  the  core — I  will  not  betray  Bertrand  Collinot !  " 

"  Mysterious  heart  of  man,"  I  exclaimed  inly,  as  I  gazed  upon 


the  low  brow,  the  malignant  eye,  the  crafty  Up  of  this  wretch, 
who  still  retained  on?  generous  and  noble  sentiment  at  the  bot- 
tom of  so  base  a  breast.  But  if  sprung  there,  it  only  sprung  to 
wither  ! 

"  As  thou  wilt,"  said  I  ;  "  remember,  death  is  the  alternative. 
By  thy  birth-star,  Jean  Desmarais,  I  should  question  whether 
perfidy  be  not  better  luck  than  hanging — but  time  speeds — fare- 
well ;  I  shall  meet  thee  on  thy  day  of  trial." 

I  turned  to  the  door  to  summon  Oswald  to  his  prisoner. 
Desmarais  roused  himself  from  the  reverie  in  which  he  appeared 
to  have  sunk. 

"  Why  do  I  doubt  ?  "  said  he  slowly.  "  Were  the  alterna- 
tive his,  would  he  not  harig  me  as  he  would  hang  his  dog  if  it 
went  mad  and  menaced  danger  ?  My  very  noble  and  merciful 
master,"  continued  the  Fatalist,  turning  to  me,  and  relapsing 
into  his  customary  manner,  "  it  is  enough  !  I  can  refuse  noth- 
ing to  a  gentleman  who  has  such  insinuating  manners.  Mon- 
treuil  may  be  in  your  power  this  night  ;  but  that  rests  solely 
with  me.  If  I  speak  not,  a  few  hours  will  place  him  irrevoca- 
bly beyond  your  reach.  If  I  betray  him  to  you,  will  Mon- 
sieur swear  that  I  shall  have  my  pardon  for  past  errors?  " 

"On  condition  of  leaving  England,"  I  answered,  for  slight 
was  my  comparative  desire  of  justice  against  Desmarais ;  and 
since  I  had  agreed  with  Gerald  not  to  bring  our  domestic  rec- 
ords to  the  glare  of  day,  justice  against  Desmarais  was  not  easy 
of  attainment ;  while  on  the  other  hand,  so  precarious  seemed  the 
chance  of  discovering  Montreuil  before  he  left  England,  with- 
out certain  intelligence  of  his  movements,  that  I  was  willing  to 
forego  any  less  ardent  feeling,  for  the  speedy  gratification  of 
that  which  made  the  sole  surviving  passion  of  my  existence. 

"  Be  it  so,"  rejoined  Desmarais;  "there  is  better  wine  in 
France!  And  Monsieur,  my  present  master — Monsieur  Ger- 
ald, will  you  too  pardon  your  poor  Desmarais  for  his  proof  of 
the  great  attachment  he  always  bore  to  you?" 
'  "Away,  wretch!"  cried  Gerald,  shrinking  back;  "your 
villainy  taints  the  very  air  !  " 

•  Desmarais  lifted  his  eyes  to  Heaven,  with  n  look  of  appeal- 
ing innocence  ;  but  I  was  wearied  with  this  odious  farce. 

"  The  condition  is  made,"  said  I  :  '*  remember,  it  only  holds 
good  if  Montreuil's  person  is  placed  in  our  power.  Now 
explain." 

"This  night,  then,"  answered  Desmarais  "Montreuil  pro- 
poses to  leave  England  by  means  of  a  French  privateer,  or 
pirate,  if  that  please  you  better.     Exactly  at  the  hour  of  twelve, 


4bO  DEVEREUX. 

he  will  meet  some  of  the  sailors  upon  the  seashore,  by  the  Cas- 
tle Cave  ;  thence  they  proceed  in  boats  to  the  islet,  off  which 
the  pirate's  vessel  awaits  them.  If  you  would  seize  Montreuil, 
you  must  provide  a  force  adequate  to  conquer  the  companions 
he  will  meet.     The  rest  is  with  you  ;  my  part  is  fulfilled," 

"  Remember !  I  repeat  if  this  be  one  of  thy  inventions,  thou 
wilt  hang." 

"  I  have  said  what  is  true,"  said  Desmarais  bitterly  ;  "  and 
were  not  life  so  very  pleasant  to  me,  I  would  sooner  have  met 
the  rack." 

I  made  no  reply  ;  but  summoning  Oswald,  surrendered  Des- 
marais to  his  charge.  I  then  held  a  hasty  consultation  with 
Gerald,  whose  mind,  however,  obscured  by  feelings  of  gloomy 
humiliation,  and  stunned  perhaps  by  the  sudden  and  close  fol- 
lowing order  of  events,  gave  me  but  little  assistance  in  my  pro- 
jects. I  observed  his  feelings  with  great  pain  ;  but  that  was  no 
moment  for  wrestling  with  them.  I  saw  that  I  could  not  de- 
pend upon  his  vigorous  co-operation  ;  and  that  even  if  Mon- 
treuil sought  him,  he  might  want  the  presence  of  mind  and  the 
energy  to  detain  my  enemy.  I  changed  therefore  the  arrange- 
ment we  had  first  proposed. 

**  I  will  remain  here,"  said  I,  "  and  I  will  instruct  the  old 
portress  to  admit  to  me  any  one  who  seeks  audience  with  you. 
Meanwhile,  Oswald  and  yourself,  if  you  will  forgive,  and  grant 
my  request  to  that  purport,  will  repair  to ,  and  inform- 
ing the  magistrate  of  our  intelligence,  procure  such  armed 
assistance  as  may  give  battle  to  the  pirates,  should  that  be  nec- 
essary, and  succeed  in  securing  Montreuil  ;  this  assistance 
may  be  indispensable  ;  at  all  events,  it  will  be  prudent  to  secure 
it ;  perhaps  for  Oswald  alone  the  magistrates  would  not  use 
that  zeal  and  expedition,  which  a  word  of  yours  C2in  command." 

"  Of  mine,"  said  Gerald,  **  say  rather  of  yours  ;  you  are  the 
lord  of  these  broad  lands  !  " 

"  Never,  my  dearest  brother,  shall  they  pass  to  me  from  their 
present  owner ;  but  let  us  hasten  now  to  execute  justice,  we  will 
talk  afterwards  of  friendship." 

I  then  sought  Oswald,  who,  if  a  physical  coward,  was  morally 
a  ready,  bustling,  and  prompt  man  ;  and  I  felt  that  1  could  rely 
more  upon  him  than  I  could  at  that  moment  upon  Gerald  :  I 
released  him  therefore  of  his  charge,  and  made  Desmarais  a 
close  prisoner,  in  the  inner  apartment  of  the  tower  ;  I  then 
gave  Oswald  the  most  earnest  injunctions  to  procure  the  assist- 
ance we  might  require,  and  to  return  with  it  as  expeditiously 
?is  possible  ;  and,  cheered  by  the  warmth  and  decision  o^  hi^ 


DEV£REtJX.  46t 


answer,  X  savy  him  depart  with   Gerald,  and  felt  my  heart  beat 
high  with  the  anticipation  of  midnight  and  retribution. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Catastrophe. 

It  happened,  unfortunately,  that  the  mission  to was  in- 
dispensable. The  slender  accommodation  of  the  tower  forbade 
Gerald  the  use  of  his  customary  attendants,  and  the  neighbor- 
ing villagers  were  too  few  in  number,  and  too  ill  provided  with 
weapons,  to  encounter  men  cradled  in  the  very  lap  of  danger  ; 
moreover,  it  was  requisite,  above  all  things,  that  no  rumor  or 
suspicion  of  our  intended  project  should  obtain  wind,  and,  by 
reaching  Montreuil's  ears,  give  him  some  safer  opportunity  of 
escape.  I  had  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  the  Fatalist's  com- 
munication, and  if  I  had,  the  subsequent  conversation  I  held 
with  him,  when  Gerald  and  Oswald  were  gone,  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  remove  it.  He  was  evidently  deeply  stung 
by  the  reflection  of  his  own  treachery,  and  singularly  enough, 
with  Montreuil  seemed  to  perish  all  his  worldly  hopes  and 
aspirations.  Desmarais,  I  found,  was  a  man  of  much  higher 
ambition  than  I  had  imagined,  and  he  had  linked  himself 
closely  to  Montreuil,  because,  from  the  genius  and  the  resolu- 
tion of  the  priest,  he  had  drawn  the  most  sanguine  auguries  of 
his  future  power.  As  the  night  advanced,  he  grew  visibly 
anxious,  and,  having  fully  satisfied  myself  that  I  might  count 
indisputably  upon  his  intelligence,  I  once  more  left  him  to  his 
meditations,  and,  alone  in  the  outer  chamber,  I  collected  my- 
self for  the  coming  event.  I  had  fully  hoped  that  Montreuil 
would  have  repaired  to  the  tower  in  search  of  Gerald,  and  this 
was  the  strongest  reason  which  had  induced  me  to  remain  be- 
hind ;  but  time  waned,  he  came  not,  and  at  length   it  grew  so 

late   that  I  began  to   tremble   lest   the   assistance  from 

should  not  arrive  in  time. 

It  struck  the  first  quarter  after  eleven  ;  in  less  than  an  hour 
my  enemy  would  be  either  in  my  power,  or  beyond  its  reach  ; 
still  Gerald  and  our  allies  came  not — my  suspense  grew  intol- 
erable, my  pulse  raged  with  fever  ;  I  could  not  stay  for  two 
seconds  in  the  same  spot  ;  a  hundred  times  had  I  drawn  my 
sword,  and  looked  eagerly  along  its  bright  blade.  "Once," 
thought  I,  as  I  looked,  "  thou  didst  cross  the  blade  of  my 
mortal  foe,  and  to  my  danger,  rather  than  victory  :  years  have 


402  DEVERiTDJf. 

brought  skill  to  the  hands  which  then  guided  thee,  and  in  the 
red  path  of  battle  thou  hast  never  waved  in  vain.  Be  stained 
but  once  more  with  human  blood,  and  I  will  prize  every  drop 
of  that  blood  beyond  all  the  triumphs  thou  hast  brought  me  ! " 
Yes,  it  had  been  with  a  fiery  and  intense  delight  that  I  had 
learned  that  Montreuil  would  have  companions  to  his  flight  in 
lawless  and  hardened  men,  who  would  never  yield  him  a  pris- 
oner without  striking  for  his  rescue;  and  I  knew  enough  of 
the  courageous  and  proud  temper  of  my  proposed  victim  to 
feel  assured  that,  priest  as  he  was,  he  would  not  hesitate  to 
avail  himself  of  the  weapons  of  his  confederates,  or  to  aid  them 
with  his  own.  Then  would  it  be  lawful  to  oppose  violence  to 
his  resistance,  and  with  my  own  hand  to  deal  the  death-blow 
of  retribution.  Still  as  these  thoughts  flashed  over  me,  my 
heart  grew  harder,  and  my  blood  rolled  more  burningly  through 
my  veins.  "They  come  not,  Gerald  returns  not,"  I  said,  as 
ray  eye  dwelt  on  the  clock,  and  saw  the  minutes  creep  one  after 
the  other — "it  matters  not — he  at  last  shall  not  escape! — 
were  he  girt  by  a  million,  I  would  single  him  from  the  herd  ; 
onestrokeof  this  right  hand  is  all  that  I  ask  of  life,  then  let  them 
avenge  him  if  they  will."  Thus  resolved,  and  despairing  at 
last  of  the  return  of  Gerald,  I  left  the  tower,  locked  the  outer 
door,  as  a  still  further  security  against  my  prisoner's  escape, 
and  repaired  with  silent,  but  swift,  strides  to  the  beach  by  the 
Castle  Cave.  It  wanted  about  half  an  hour  to  midnight;  the' 
night  was  still  and  breathless,  a  dim  mist  spread  frorh  sea  to 
sky,  through  which  the  stars  gleamed  forth  heavily,  and  at  dis- 
tant intervals.  The  moon  was  abroad,  but  the  vapors  that  sur- 
rounded her  gave  a  watery  and  sicklied  dulness  to  her  light, 
and  wherever  in  the  niches  and  hollows  of  the  cliff,  the  shad- 
ows fell,  all  was  utterly  dark,  and  unbroken  by  the  smallest 
ray  ;  only  along  the  near  waves  of  the  sea,  and  the  whiter  parts 
of  the  level  sand  were  objects  easily  discernible.  I  strode  to 
and  fro,  for  a  few  minutes,  before  the  Castle  Cave ;  I  saw  no 
one,  and  I  seated  myself  in  stern  vigilance  upon  a  stone,  in  a 
worn  recess  of  the  rock,  and  close  by  the  mouth  of  the  Castle 
Cave.  The  spot  where  I  sat  was  wrapt  in  total  darkness, 
and  I  felt  assured  that  I  might  wait  my  own  time  for  dis- 
closing myself.  I  had  not  been  many  minutes  at  my  place 
of  watch  before  I  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  approach  from  the 
left ;  he  moved  with  rapid  steps,  and  once  when  he  passed 
along  a  place  where  the  wan  light  of  the  skies  was  less  obscured 
I  saw  enough  of  his  form  and  air  to  recognize  Montreuil.  He 
neared  the  cave — he  paused — he  was  within  a  few  paces  of 


t>t;VEft6tJif.  40J 

me — I  was  about  to  rise,  when  another  figure  suddenly  glided 
from  the  mouth  of  the  cave  itself. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  latter,  "it  is  Bertrand  Collinot— Fate  be 
lautfed ! " 

Had  a  voice  from  the  grave  struck  my  ear,  it  would  have 
scarcely  amazed  me  more  that  which  I  now  heard.  Could  I 
believe  my  senses?  the  voice  was  that  of  Desmarais,  whom  I 
left  locked  within  the  inner  chamber  of  the  tower.  "  Fly,"  he 
resumed,  "fly  instantly;  you  have  not  a  moment  to  lose — 
already  the  stern  Morton  waits  thee — already  the  hounds  of 
justice  are  on  thy  track  ;  tarry  not  for  the  pirates,  but  begone 
at  once." 

"You  rave,  man  !  What  mean  you  ?  the  boats  will  be  here 
immediately.  While  you  yet  speak  methinks  I  can  descry  them 
on  the  sea.     Something  of  this  I  dreaded  when,  some   hours 

ago,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Gerald  on  the   road   to  .     I 

saw  not  the  face  of  his  companion,  but  I  would  not  trust  my- 
self in  the  tower — yet  I  must  await  the  boats — flight  is  indeed 
requisite,  but  fAey  make  the  only  means  by  which  flight  is 
safe ! " 

"Pray,  then,  thou  who  believest,  pray  that  they  may  come 
soon,  or  thou  diest — and  I  with  thee  I  Morton  is  returned — 
is  reconciled   to  his  weak  brother.     Gerald  and  Oswald   are 

away    to  ,    for  men  to  seize  and  drag  thee   to  a  public 

death,  I  was  arrested — threatened  ;  but  one  way  to  avoid 
prison  and  cord  was  shown  me.  Curse  me,  Bertrand,  for  I  em- 
braced it.  I  told  them  thou  wouldst  fly  to-night,  and  with 
whom.  They  locked  me  in  the  inner  chamber  of  the  tower — 
Morton  kept  guard  without.  At  length  I  heard  him  leave  the 
room — I  heard  him  descend  the  stairs,  and  lock  the  gate  of  the 
tower.  Ha  !  ha !  little  dreamt  he  of  the  wit  of  Jean  Desmarais. 
T^j  friend  must  scorn  bolt  and  bar,  Bertrand  Collinot.  T  hey 
had  not  searched  me — I  used  my  instruments — thou  knowest 
that  with  those  instruments  I  could  glide  through  stone 
walls! — I  opened  the  door — I  was  in  the  outer  room — I  lifted 
the  trap-door  which  old  Sir  William  had  boarded  over,  and 
which  thou  hadst  so  artfully  and  imperceptibly  replaced,  when 
thou  wantedst  secret  intercourse  with  thy  pupils — I  sped  along 
the  passage — came  to  the  iron  door — touched  the  spring  thou 
hadst  inserted  in  the  plate  which  the  old  knight  had  placed 
over  the  keyhole — and  have  come  to  repair  my  coward 
treachery — to  save  and  to  fly  with  thee.  But,  while  I  speak, 
we  tread  on  a  precipice.  Morton  has  left  the  house,  and  is 
even  now,  perhaps,  in  search  of  thee." 


404  DEVEREl^X. 

"  Ha!  I  care  not  if  he  be,"  said  Montreuil,  in  a  low,  but 
haughty  tone.  "  Priest  though  I  am,  I  have  not  assumed  the 
garb  without  assuming  also  the  weapon  of  the  layman.  Even 
now  I  have  my  hand  upon  the  same  sword  which  shone  under 
the  banners  of  Mar  ;  and  which  once,  but  for  my  foolish 
mercy,  would  have  rid  me  forever  of  this  private  foe." 

"Unsheath  it  now,  Julian  Montreuil !  "  said  I,  coming  from 
my  retreat,  and  confronting  the  pair. 

Montreuil  recoiled  several  paces.  At  that  instant  a  shot 
boomed  along  the  waters. 

"  Haste,  haste,"  cried  Desmarais,  hurrying  to  the  waves,  as 
a  boat,  now  winding  the  cliff,  became  darkly  visible  ;  "  haste, 
Bertrand,  here  are  Bonjean  and  his  men — but  they  are  pur- 
sued ! " 

Once  did  Montreuil  turn  as  if  to  fly,  but  my  sword  was  at 
his  breast,  and,  stamping  fiercely  on  the  ground,  he  drew  his 
rapier  and  parried  and  returned  my  assault ;  but  he  retreated 
rapidly  towards  the  water  while  he  struck  ;  and  wild  and 
loud  came  the  voices  from  the  boat,  which  now  touched  the 
shore. 

"Come — come — come — the  officers  are  upon  us;  we  can 
wait  not  a  moment  !  "  and  Montreuil,  as  he  heard  the  cries, 
mingled  with  oaths  and  curses,  yet  quickened  his  pace  towards 
tiie  quarter  whence  they  came.  His  steps  were  tracked  by  his 
blood — twice  had  my  sword  passed  through  his  flesh  ;  but 
twice  had  it  failed  my  vengeance,  and  avoided  a  mortal  part. 
A  second  boat,  filled  also  with  the  pirates,  followed  the  first ; 
but  then  another  and  a  larger  vessel  bore  black  and  fast  over 
the  water — the  rush  and  cry  of  men  were  heard  on  land — again 
and  nearer  a  shot  broke  over  the  heavy  air — another  and 
another — a  continued  fire.  The  strand  was  now  crowded  with 
the  officers  of  justice.  The  vessel  beyond  forbade  escape  to 
the  opposite  islet.  There  was  no  hope  for  the  pirates  but  in 
contest,  or  in  dispersion  among  the  cliffs  or  woods  on  the 
shore.  They  formed  their  resolution  at  once,  and  stood  pre- 
pared and  firm,  partly  on  their  boats,  partly  on  the  beach 
around  them.  Though  the  officers  were  far  more  numerous, 
the  strife — fierce,  desperate,  and  hand  to  hand — seemed  equally 
sustained,  Montreuil,  as  he  retreated  before  me,  bore  back 
into  the  general  mHe'e,  and,  as  the  press  thickened,  we  were  for 
some  moments  separated.  It  was  at  this  time  that  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Gerald ;  he  seemed  also  then  to  espy  me,  and  made 
eagerly  towards  me.  Suddenly  he  was  snatched  from  my  view. 
The  fray  relaxed ;  the  officers,  evidently  worsted,   retreated 


devereux.  405 

towards  the  land,  and  the  pirates  appeared  once  more  to  enter- 
tain the  hope  of  making  their  escape  by  water.  Probably  they 
thought  that  the  darkness  of  the  night  might  enable  them  to 
baffle  the  pursuit  of  the  adverse  vessel,  which  now  lay  expectant 
and  passive  on  the  wave.  However  this  be,  they  made  simul- 
taneously to  their  boats,  and  among  their  numbers  I  descried 
Montreuil.  I  set  my  teeth  with  a  calm  and  prophetic  wrath. 
But  three  strokes  did  my  good  blade  make  through  that  throng 
before  I  was  by  his  side  ;  he  had  at  that  instant  his  hold  upon 
the  boat's  edge,  and  he  stood  knee-deep  in  the  dashing  waters. 
I  laid  my  grasp  upon  his  shoulder,  and  my  cheek  touched  his 
own  as  I  hissed  in  his  ear,  **  I  am  with  thee  yet !  "  He  turned 
fiercely — he  strove,  but  he  strove  in  vain,  to  shake  off  my 
grasp.  The  boat  pushed  away,  and  his  last  hope  of  escape 
was  over.  At  this  moment  the  moon  broke  away  from  the 
mist,  and  we  saw  each  other  plainly,  and  face  to  face.  There 
was  a  ghastly  but  set  despair  in  Montreuil's  lofty  and  proud 
countenance,  which  changed  gradually  to  a  fiercer  aspect  as  he 
met  my  gaze.  Once  more,  foot  to  foot  and  hand  to  hand,  we 
engaged  ;  the  increased  light  of  the  skies  rendered  the  contest 
more  that  of  skill  than  it  had  hitherto  been,  and  Montreuil 
seemed  to  collect  all  his  energies,  and  to  fight  with  a  steadier 
and  a  cooler  determination.  Nevertheless  the  combat  was 
short.  Once  my  antagonist  had  the  imprudence  to  raise  his 
arm  and  expose  his  body  to  my  thrust  :  his  sword  grazed  my 
cheek — I  shall  bear  the  scar  to  my  grave — mine  passed  twice 
through  his  breast,  and  he  fell,  bathed  in  his  blood,  at  my 
feet. 

"  Lift  him  !  "  I  said,  to  the  men  who  now  crowded  round. 
They  did  so,  and  he  unclosed  his  eyes  and  glared  upon  me  as 
the  death-pang  convulsed  his  features,  and  gathered  in  foam  to 
his  lips.  But  his  thoughts  were  not  upon  his  destroyer,  nor 
upon  the  wrongs  he  had  committed,  nor  upon  any  solitary 
being  in  the  linked  society  which  he  had  injured. 

"  Order  of  Jesus,"  he  muttered,  "  had  I  but  lived  three 
months  longer,  I — " 

So  died  Julian  Montreuil. 

Conclusion. 

Montreuil  was  not  the  only  victim  in  the  brief  combat  of 
that  night ;  several  of  the  pirates  and  their  pursuers  perished, 
and  among  the  bodies  we  found  Gerald.  He  had  been  pierced 
by  a  shot  through  the  brain,  and  was  perfectly  lifeless  when 
his  body  was  discovered.     By  a  sort  of  retribution,  it  seems 


4o6  DEVEREUX. 

that  my  unhappy  brother  received  his  death-wound  from'  a 
shot  fired  (probably  at  random)  by  Desmarais  ;  and  thus  the 
instrument  of  the  fraud  he  had  tacitly  subscribed  to  became 
the  minister  of  his  death.  Nay,  the  retribution  seemed  even 
to  extend  to  the  very  method  by  which  Desmarais  had  escaped: 
and,  as  the  reader  has  perceived,  the  subterranean  communica- 
tion which  had  been  secretly  reopened  to  deceive  my  uncle, 
made  the  path  which  had  guided  Gerald's  murderer  to  the 
scene  which  afterwards  ensued.  The  delay  of  tlie  officers  had 
been  owing  to  private  intelligence,  previously  received  by  the 
magistrate  to  whom  Gerald  had  applied,  of  the  number  and 
force  of  the  pirates,  and  his  waiting  in  consequence  for  a 
military  reinforcement  to  the  party  to  be  despatched  against 
them.  Those  of  the  pirates  who  escaped  the  conflict  escaped 
also  the  pursuit  of  the  hostile  vessel ;  they  reached  the  islet  and 
gained  their  captain's  ship.  A  few  shots  between  the  two 
vessels  were  idly  exchanged,  and  the  illicit  adventurers  reached 
the  French  shore  in  safety ;  with  them  escaped  Desmarais,  and 
of  him,  from  that  hour  to  this,  I  have  heard  nothing — so 
capriciously  plays  Time  with  villains  ! 

Marie  Oswald  has  lately  taken  unto  himself  a  noted  inn  on 
the  North  Road,  a  place  eminently  calculated  for  the  display 
of  his  various  talents;  he  has  also  taken  unto  himself  a  wife, 
of  whose  tongue  and  temper  he  has  been  known  already  to 
complain  with  no  Socratic  meekness ;  and  we  may  therefore 
opine  that  his  misdeeds  have  not  altogether  escaped  their  fitting 
share  of  condemnation. 

Succeeding  at  once,  by  the  death  of  my  poor  brother,  to  the 
Devereux  estates,  I  am  still  employed  in  rebuilding,  on  a  yet 
more  costly  scale,  my  ancestral  mansion.  So  eager  and  im- 
patient is  my  desire  for  the  completion  of  my  undertaking,  tliat 
I  allow  rest  neither  by  night  or  day,  and  half  the  work  will  be 
done  by  torchlight.  With  the  success  of  this  project  termi- 
nates my  last  scheme  of  Ambition. 

Here,  then,  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  I  conclude  the  history 
of  my  life.  Whether  in  the  star  which,  as  I  now  write,  shines 
in  upon  me,  and  which  a  romance,  still  unsubdued,  has  often 
dreamed  to  be  the  bright  prophet  of  my  fate,  something  of 
future  adventure,  suffering,  or  excitement  is  yet  predestined  to 
me  ;  or  whether  life  will  muse  itself  away  in  the  solitudes  which 
surround  the  home  of  my  past  childhood  and  the  scene  of  my 
present  retreat,  creates  within  me  but  slight  food  for  anticipa- 
tion or  conjecture.  I  have  exhausted  the  sources  of  those 
feelings  which  flow,  whether  through  the  channels  of  anxiety  or 


DEVEREUX.  407 

of  hope,  towards  the  future  ;  and  the  :iestlessness  of  my  man- 
hood, having  attained  its  last  object,  has  done  the  labor  of 
time  and  bequeathed  to  me  the  indifference  of  age. 

If  love  exists  for  me  no  longer,  I  know  well  that  the  memory 
of  that  which  has  been  is  to  me  far  more  than  a  living  love  is 
to  others  ;  and  perhaps  there  is  no  passion  so  full  of  tender,  of 
soft,  and  of  hallowing  associations  as  the  love  which  is  stamped 
by  death.  If  I  have  borne  much,  and  my  spirit  has  worked 
out  its  earthly  end  in  travail  and  in  tears,  yet  I  would  not  fore- 
go the  lessons  which  my  life  has  bequeathed  me,  even  though 
they  be  deeply  blended  with  sadness  and  regret.  No  !  were  I 
asked  what  best  dignifies  the  present,  and  consecrates  the  past ; 
what  enables  us  alone  to  draw  a  Just  moral  from  the  tale  of 
life  ;  what  sheds  the  purest  light  upon  our  reason  ;  what  gives 
the  firmest  strength  to  our  religion  ;  and,  whether  our  remain- 
ing years  pass  in  seclusion  or  in  action,  is  best  fitted  to  soften 
the  heart  of  man,  and  to  elevate  the  soul  to  God,  I  would 
answer,  with  Lassus,  it  is  "  EXPERIENCE  ! " 


THE  END. 


THE    DISOWNED 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  PRESENT 
EDITION. 


In  this  edition  of  a  work  composed  in  early  youth,  I  have 
not  attempted  to  remove  those  faults  of  construction  which 
may  be  sufficiently  apparent  in  the  plot :  but  which  could  not 
indeed  be  thoroughly  rectified  without  re-writing  the  whole 
work.  I  can  only  hope  that  with  the  defects  of  inexperience, 
may  be  found  some  of  the  merits  of  frank  and  artless  enthu- 
siasm. 1  have,  however,  lightened  the  narrative  of  certain 
episodical  and  irrelevant  passages,  and  relieved  the  general 
style  of  some  boyish  extravagances  of  diction.  At  the  time  this 
work  was  written  I  was  deeply  engaged  in  the  study  of  meta- 
physics and  ethics — and  out  of  that  study  grew  the  character 
of  Algernon  Mordaunt,  He  is  represented  as  a  type  of  the 
Heroism  of  Christian  Philosophy — an  union  of  love  and  knowl- 
edge placed  in  the  midst  of  sorrow,  and  laboring  on  through 
the  pilgrimage  of  life,  strong  in  the  fortitude  that  comes  from 
belief  in  heaven 

E.  B.  L. 
Knebworth,  May  5,  1832. 


THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  I'll  tell  you  a  story  if  you  please  to  attend." — Limho,  by  G.  Knight. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  soft,  warm  day  in  the  May  of  1 7 — . 

The  sun  had  already  set,  and  the  twilight  was  gathering  slowly 
over  the  large,  still  masses  of  wood  which  lay  on  either  side  of 
one  of  those  green  lanes  so  peculiar  to  England.  Here  and 
there,  the  outline  of  the  trees  irregularly  shrunk  back  from  the 
road,  leaving  broad  patches  of  waste  land  covered  with  fern — 
and  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  dwarf  furze,  and,  at  more  dis- 
tant intervals,  thick  clusters  of  rushes,  from  which  came  the 
small  hum  of  gnats — those  "  evening  revellers  " — alternately 
rising  and  sinking  in  the  customary  manner  of  their  unknown 
sports — till,  as  the  shadows  grew  darker  and  darker,  their  thin 
and  airy  shapes  were  no  longer  distinguishable,  and  no  solitary 
token  of  life  or  motion  broke  the  voiceless  monotojiy  of  the 
surrounding  woods. 

The  first  sound  which  invaded  the  silence  came  from  the 
light,  quick  footsteps  of  a  person,  whose  youth  betrayed  itself 
in  its  elastic  and  unmeasured  tread,  and  in  the  gay,  free  carol, 
which  broke  out  by  fits  and  starts  upon  the  gentle  stillness  of 
the  evening. 

There  was  something  rather  indicative  of  poetical  taste  than 
musical  science  in  the  selection  of  this  vesper  hymn,  which 
always  commenced  with — 

"  *Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  green  wood," 

and  never  proceeded  a  syllable  farther  than  the  end  of  the 
second  line, 

"  When  birds  are  about  and  singing  "; 

from  the  last  word  of  which,  after  a  brief  pause,  it  invariably 
started  forth  into  joyous  "iteration." 


6  THE   DISOWNED. 

Presently  a  heavier,  yet  still  more  rapid,  step  than  that  of 
the  youth  was  heard  behind  ;  and,  as  it  overtook  the  latter,  a 
loud,  clear,  good-humored  voice  gave  the  salutation  of  the 
evening.  The  tone  in  which  this  courtesy  was  returned  was 
frank,  distinct,  and  peculiarly  harmonious. 

"Good  evening,  my  friend.     How  far  is  it  to  W ?     I 

hope  I  am  not  out  of  the  direct  road?" 

"To  W ,  sir?"  said  the  man,  touching  his  hat,  as  he 

perceived,  in  spite  of  the  dusk,  something  in  the  air  and  voice 
of  his  new  acquaintance  which  called  for  a  greater  degree  of 
respect  than  he  was  at  first  disposed  to  accord  to  a  pedestrian 

traveller — "  To  W ,  sir  ?  why,  you  will  not  surely  go  there 

to-night :  it  is  more  than  eight  miles  distant,  and  the  roads 
none  of  the  best?" 

"  Now,  a  curse  on  all  rogues  !  "  quoth  the  youth  with  a  serious 
sort  of  vivacity.  "Why,  the  miller,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
assured  me  I  should  be  at  my  journey's  end  in  less  than  an 
hour." 

"He  may  haye  said  right,  sir,"  returned  the  man,  "yet  you 
will  not  reach  W — - —  in  twice  that  time." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  the  younger  stranger. 

"  Why,  that  you  may  for  once  force  a  miller  to  speak  truth  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  make  a  public  house,  about  three  miles 
hence,  the  end  of  your  day's  journey." 

"Thank  you  for  the  hint,"  said  the  youth.  "  Does  the  house 
you  speak  of  lie  on  tlie  road-side?" 

"No,  sir:  the  lane  branches  off  about  two  miles  hence,  and 
you  must  then  turn  to  the  right  :  but  ////then,  our  way  is  the 
same,  and  if  you  would  not  prefer  your  own  company  to  mine, 
we  can  trudge  on  together," 

"With  all  my  heart,"  rejoined  the  younger  stranger ;  "and 
not  the  less  willingly  from  the  brisk  pace  you  walk.  I  thought 
I  had  few  equals  in  pedestrianism ;  but  it  should  not  be 
for  a  small  wager  that  I  would  undertake  to  keep  up  with 
you." 

"Perhaps,  sir,"  said  the  man  laughing,  "I  have  had,  in  the 
course  of  my  life,  a  better  usage  and  a  longer  experience  of  my 
heels  than  you  have." 

Somewhat  startled  by  a  speech  of  so  equivocal  a  meaning, 
the  youth,  for  the  first  time,  turned  round  to  examine,  as  well 
as  the  increasing  darkness  would  permit,  the  size  and  appear- 
ance of  his  companion.  He  was  not  perhaps  too  well  satisfied 
with  his  survey.  His  fellow  pedestrian  was  about  six  feet  high, 
and  of  a  correspondent  girth  of  limb  and  frame,  which  would 


THE   DISOWNED.  7 

have  made  him  fearful  odds  in  any  encounter  where  bodily 
strength  was  the  best  means  of  conquest.  Notwithstanding  the 
mildness  of  the  weather,  he  was  closely  buttoned  in  a  rough 
great -coat,  which  was  well  calculated  to  give  all  due  effect  to 
the  athletic  proportions  of  the  wearer. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"This  is  but  a  wild,  savage  sort  of  scene  for  England,  sir,  in 
this  day  of  new-fashioned  ploughs  and  farming  improvements," 
said  the  tall  stranger,  looking  round  at  the  ragged  wastes,  and 
grim  woods,  which  lay  steeped  in  the  shade  beside  and  before 
them. 

"True,"  answered  the  youth;  "and  in  a  few  years  agricul- 
tural innovation  will  scarcely  leave,  even  in  these  wastes,  a 
single  furze-blossom  for  the  bee,  or  a  tuft  of  greensward  for 
the  grasshopper ;  but,  however,  unpleasant  the  change  may  be 
for  us  foot-travellers,  we  must  not  repine  at  what  they  tell  us 
is  so  sure  a  witness  of  the  prosperity  of  the  country." 

''^  They  tell  us!  w//^  tell  us?"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  with 
great  vivacity.  "  Is  it  the  puny  and  spiritless  artisan,  or  the 
debased  and  crippled  slave  of  the  counter  and  the  till,  or  the 
sallow  speculator  on  morals,  who  would  mete  us  out  our  liberty — 
our  happiness — our  very  feelings,  by  the  yard,  and  inch,  and 
fraction  ?  No,  no,  let  them  follow  what  the  books  and  precepts 
of  their  own  wisdom  teach  them  ;  let  them  cultivate  more 
highly  the  lands  they  have  already  parcelled  out  by  dykes  and 
fences,  and  leave,  though  at  scanty  intervals,  some  green  patches 
of  unpolluted  land  for  the  poor  man's  beast,  and  the  free  man's 
foot." 

"You  are  an  enthusiast  on  this  subject,"  said  the  younger 
traveller,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  tone  and  words  of  the  last 
speech  ;  "and  if  I  were  not  just  about  to  commence  the  world 
with  a  firm  persuasion  that  enthusiasm  on  any  matter  is  a  great 
obstacle  to  success,  I  could  be  as  warm,  though  not  so  eloquent, 
as  yourself."  * 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  sinking  into  a  more  natural  and 
careless  tone,  "  I  have  a  better  right  than  I  imagine  you  can 
claim  to  repine  or  even  to  inveigh  against  the  boundaries  which 
are  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  encroaching  upon  what  I 
have  learned  to  look  upon  as  my  own  territory.  You  were,  just 
before  I  joined  you,  singing  an  old  song  ;  I  honor  you  for  your 
taste  :  and  no  offence,  sir,  but  a  sort  of  fellowship  in  feeling 
made  me  take  the  liberty  to  accost  you.  I  am  no  very  great 
scholar  in  other  things  ;  but  I  owe  my  present  circumstances 
of  life  solely  to  my  fondness  for  those  old  songs  and  quaint 


8  THE    DISOWNED. 

madrigals.     And  I  believe  no  person  can  better  apply  to  him« 
self  Will  Shakspeare's  invitation  : — 

"  '  Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither.come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
Here  sh^U  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather.  '  " 

Relieved  from  his  former  fear,  but  with  increased  curiosity 
at  this  quotation,  which  was  half  said,  half  sung,  in  a  tone  which 
seemed  to  evince  a  hearty  relish  for  the  sense  of  the  words,  the 
youth  replied  : 

"  Truly,  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  among  the  travellers  of  this 
wild  country  with  so  well,  stored  a  memory.  And,  indeed,  I 
should  have  imagined  that  the  only  persons  to  whom  your 
verses  could  exactly  have  applied  were  those  honorable  va- 
grants from,  the  Nile,  whom  in  vulgar  language  we  term 
gypsies." 

"  Precisely  so,  sir,"  answered  the  tall  stranger  indifferently  ; 
*'  precisely  so.     It  is  to  that  ancient  body  that  I  belong." 

"  The  devil  you  do  ? "  quoth  the  youth,  in  unsophisticated 
surprise  ;  "the  progress  of  education,  is  indeed,  astonishing  !  " 

'*  Why,"  answered  the  stranger,  laughing,  "  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  sir,  I  am  a  gypsy  by  inclination,  not  birth.  The  illus- 
trious Bamfylde  Moore  Carew  is  not  the  only  example  of  one 
of  gentle  blood  and  honorable  education  whom  the  fleshpots  of 
Egypt  have  seduced." 

"1  congratulate  myself,"  quoth  the  youth,  in  a  tone  that 
might  have  been  in  jest,  "  upon  becoming  acquainted  with  a 
character  at  once  so  respectable  and  so  novel ;  and,  to  return 
your  quotation  in  the  way  of  a  compliment,  I  cry  out  with  the 
most  fashionable  author  of  Elizabeth's  days — 

'  O  for  a  bowl  of  fat  Canary, 
Rich  Palermo — sparkling  Sherry,' 

in  order  to  drink  to  our  better  acquaintance." 

"  Thank  you  sir, — thank  you,"  cried  the  strange  gypsy,  seem- 
ingly delighted  with  the  spirit  with  which  his  young  acquaint- 
ance appeared  to  enter  into  his  character  and  his  quotation  from 
a  class  of  authors  at  that  time  much  less  known  and  appreciated 
than  at  present  ;  "  and  if  you  have  seen  already  enough  of  the 
world  to  take  up  with  ale  when  neither  Canary,  Palermo,  nor 
Sherry  are  forthcoming,  I  will  promise,  at  least,  to  pledge  you 


THE    DISOWNED.  ^ 

in  large  draughts  of  that  homely  beverage.  What  say  you  to 
passing  a  night  with  us  ?  our  tents  are  yet  more  at  hand  than 
the  public-house  of  which  I  spoke  to  you." 

The  young  man  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied — 

"  I  will  answer  you  frankly,  my  friend,  even  though  I  may 
find  cause  to  repent  my  confidence.  I  have  a  few  g\iineas 
about  me,  which,  though  not  a  large  sum,  are  my  all.  Now, 
however  ancient  and  honorable  your  fraternity  may  be,  they 
labor  under  a  sad  confusion,  I  fear,  in  their  ideas  of  meum  and 
tuum." 

"  Faith,  sir,  I  believe  you  are  right  ;  and  were  you  some  years 
older,  I  think  you  would  not  have  favored  me  with  the  same 
disclosure  you  have  done  now  ;  but  you  may  be  quite  easy  on 
that  score.  If  you  were  made  of  gold,  the  rascals  would  not 
filch  off  the  corner  of  your  garment  as  long  as  you  were  under 
my  protection.     Does  this  assurance  satisfy  you  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  the  youth  :  **  and  now  how  far  are  we  from 
your  encampment  ?  I  assure  you  I  am  all  eagerness  to  be 
among  a  set  of  which  I  have  witnessed  such  a  specimen." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  returned  the  gypsy,  "  you  must  not  judge  of  all 
my  brethren  by  me :  I  confess  that  they  are  but  a  rough  tribe. 
However,  I  love  them  dearly  :  and  am  only  the  more  inclined 
to  think  them  honest  to  each  other,  because  they  are  rogues  to 
all  the  rest  of  the  world." 

By  this  time,  our  travellers  had  advanced  nearly  two  miles 
since  they  had  commenced  companionship  :  and  at  a  turn  in 
the  lane,  about  three  hundred  yards  further  on,  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  distant  fire  burning  brightly  through  the  dim  trees. 
They  quickened  their  pace,  and  striking  a  little  out  of  their 
path  into  a  common,  soon  approached  two  tents,  the  Arab 
homes  of  the  vagrant  and  singular  people  with  whom  the  gypsy 
claimed  brotherhood  and  alliance. 


CHAPTER  11. 

"  Here  we  securely  live  and  eat 

The  cream  of  meat  ; 
And  keep  eternal  fires 
By  which  we  sit  and  do  divine." 

Herrick — Ode  to  Sir  CHpseby  Crew. 

Around  a  fire  which  blazed  and  crackled  beneath  the  large 
seething  pot,  that  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  mystery,  and  a 


JO  THE   DISOWNED. 

promise  of  the  good  cheer,  which  are  the  supposed  character- 
istics of  the  gypsy  race,  were  grouped  seven  or  eight  persons, 
upon  whose  swarthy  and  strong  countenances  the  irregular  and 
fitful  flame  cast  a  picturesque  and  not  unbecoming  glow.  All 
of  these,  with  the  exception  of  an  old  crone  who  was  tending 
the  pot,  and  a  little  boy  who  was  feeding  the  fire  with  sundry 
fragments  of  stolen  wood,  started  to  their  feet  upon  the  entrance 
of  the  stranger. 

"  What  ho,  my  bob  cuffins,"  cried  the  gypsy  guide,  "  I  have 
brought  you  a  gentry  cove,  to  whom  you  will  show  all  proper 
respect ;  and  hark  ye,  my  maunders,  if  ye  dare  beg,  borrow,  or 
steal  a  single  croker — ay — but  a  bawbee  of  him,  I'll — but  ye 
know  me."  The  gypsy  stopped  abruptly,  and  turned  an  eye, 
in  which  menace  vainly  struggled  with  good-humor,  upon  each 
of  his  brethren,  as  they  submissively  bowed  to  him  and  his 
protege,  and  poured  forth  a  profusion  of  promises,  to  which  their 
admonitor  did  not  even  condescend  to  listen.  He  threw  off 
his  great-coat,  doubled  it  down  by  the  best  place  near  the  fire, 
and  made  the  youth  forthwith  possess  himself  of  the  seat  it 
afforded.     He  then  lifted  the  cover  of  the  mysterious  caldron. 

"  Well,  Mort,"  cried  he  to  the  old  woman,  as  he  bent  wist- 
fully down,  "  what  have  we  here  ?  " 

**  Two  ducks,  three  chickens,  and  a  rabbit,  with  some  pota- 
toes," growled  the  old  hag,  who  claimed  the  usual  privilege  of 
her  culinary  office,  to  be  as  ill-tempered  as  she  pleased. 

''Good  !  "  said  the  gypsy  ;  "and  now,  Mim,  my  cull,  go  to 
the  other  tent,  and  ask  its  inhabitants,  in  my  name,  to  come 
here  and  sup  ;  bid  them  bring  their  caldron  to  eke  out  ours — 
I'll  find  the  lush."  .c 

With  these  words  (which  Mim,  a  short,  swarthy  member  of 
the  gang,  with  a  countenance  too  astute  to  be  pleasing,  in- 
stantly started  forth  to  obey)  the  gypsy  stretched  himself  at  full 
length  by  the  youth's  side,  and  began  reminding  him,  with 
some  jocularity,  and  at  some  length,  of  his  promise  to  drink  to 
their  better  acquaintance. 

Something  there  was  in  the  scene,  the  fire,  the  caldron,  the 
intent  figure  and  withered  countenance  of  the  old  woman,  the 
grouping  of  the  other  forms,  the  rude  but  not  unpicturesque 
tent,  the  dark,  still  woods  on  either  side,  with  the  deep  and 
cloudless  skies  above,  as  the  stars  broke  forth  one  by  one  upon 
the  silent  air,  which  (to  use  the  orthodox  phrase  of  the  novelist) 
would  not  have  been  wholly  unworthy  the  bold  pencil  of  Sal- 
vator  himself. 

The  youth  eyed,  with  that  involuntary  respect  which  per-'^ 


THE    DISOWNED.  II 

sonal  advantages  always  command,  the  large,  yet  symmetrical 
proportions  of  his  wild  companion  ;  nor  was  the  face  which 
belonged  to  that  frame  much  less  deserving  of  attention. 
Though  not  handsome,  it  was  both  shrewd  and  prepossessing 
in  its  expression  ;  the  forehead  was  prominent,  the  brows  over- 
hung the  eyes,  which  were  large,  dark,  and,  unlike  those  of  the 
tribe  in  general,  rather  calm  than  brilliant ;  the  complexion, 
though  sunburnt,  was  not  swarthy,  and  the  face  was  carefully 
and  cleanly  shaved,  so  as  to  give  all  due  advantage  of  contrast 
to  the  brown  luxuriant  locks  which  fell,  rather  in  flakes  than 
curls,  on  either  side  of  the  healthful  and  manly  cheeks.  In 
age,  he  was  about  thirty-five,  and,  though  his  air  and  mien 
were  assuredly  not  lofty,  nor  aristocratic,  yet  they  were  strik- 
ingly above  the  bearing  of  his  vagabond  companions  :  those 
companions  were  in  all  respects  of  the  ordinary  race  of  gipsies; 
the  cunning  and  flashing  eye,  the  raven  locks,  the  dazzling 
teeth,  the  bronzed  color,  and  the  low,  slight,  active  form,  were 
as  strongly  their  distinguishing  characteristics  as  the  tokens  of 
all  their  tribe. 

But  to  these,  the  appearance  of  the  youth  presented  a  striking 
and  beautiful  contrast. 

He  had  only  just  passed  the  stage  of  boyhood,  perhaps  he 
might  have  seen  eighteen  summers,  probably  not  so  many.  He 
had,  in  imitation  of  his  companion,  and  perhaps  from  mistaken 
courtesy  to  his  new  society,  doffed  his  hat ;  and  the  attitude 
which  he  had  chosen  fully  developed  the  noble  and  intellectual 
turn  of  his  head  and  throat.  His  hair,  as  yet  preserved  from 
the  disfiguring  fashions  of  the  day,  was  of  a  deep  auburn, 
which  was  rapidly  becoming  of  a  more  chestnut  hue,  and  curled 
in  short  close  curls  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  to  the  com- 
mencement of  a  forehead  singularly  white  and  high.  His 
brows  finely  and  lightly  penciled,  and  his  long  lashes  of  the 
darkest  dye,  gave  a  deeper  and  perhaps  softer  shade  than  they 
otherwise  would  have  worn,  to  eyes  quick  and  observant  in 
their  expression,  and  of  a  light  hazel  in  their  color.  His  cheek 
was  very  fair,  and  the  red  light  of  the  fire  cast  an  artificial  tint 
of  increased  glow  upon  a  complexion  that  had  naturally  rather 
bloom  than  color ;  while  a  dark  riding-frock  set  off  in  their 
full  beauty  the  fine  outline  of  his  chest,  and  the  slender  sym- 
metry of  his  frame. 

But  it  was  neither  his  features,  nor  his  form,  eminently  hand- 
some as  they  were,  which  gave  the  principal  charm  to  the 
young  stranger's  appearance — it  was  the  strikingly  bold,  buoy- 
ant, frank,  and  almost  joyous  expression  which  presided  over 


12  THE    DISOWNED. 

all.  There  seemed  to  dwell  the  first  glow  and  life  of  youth^ 
undimmed  by  a  single  fear,  and  unbaffled  in  a  single  hope. 
There  were  the  elastic  spring,  the  inexhaustible  wealth  of  ener- 
gies, which  defied,  in  their  exulting  pride,  the  heaviness  of 
sorrow  and  the  harassments  of  time.  It  was  a  face  that,  while 
it  filled  you  with  some  melancholy  foreboding  of  the  changes 
and  chances  which  must,  in  the  inevitable  course  of  fate,  cloud 
the  openness  of  the  unwrinkled  brow,  and  soberize  the  fire  of 
the  daring  and  restless  eye,  instilled  also  within  you  some 
assurance  of  triumph,  and  some  omen  of  success :  a  vague 
but  powerful  sympathy  with  the  adventurous  and  cheerful, 
spirit,  which  appeared  literally  to  speak  in  its  expression.  It 
was  a  face  you  might  imagine  in  one  born  under  a  prosperous 
star,  and  you  felt,  as  you  gazed,  a  confidence  in  that  bright 
countenance,  which,  like  the  shield  of  the  British  Prince,* 
seemed  possesssed  with  a  spell  to  charm  into  impotence  the 
evil  spirits  who  menaced  its  possessor. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  his  friend,  the  gypsy,  who  had  in  his  turn 
been  surveying  with  admiration  the  sinewy  and  agile  frame  of 
his  young  guest,  "  well,  sir,  how  fares  your  appetite  ?  Old 
Dame  Bingo  will  be  mortally  offended  if  you  do  not  do  ample 
justice  to  her  good  cheer." 

"  If  so,"  answered  our  traveller,  who,  young  as  he  was,  had 
learnt  already  the  grand  secret  of  making,  in  every  situation,  a 
female  friend,  "  if  so,  I  shall  be  likely  to  offend  her  still  more." 

"  And  how,  my  pretty  master  ? "  said  the  old  crone,  with  an 
iron  smile. 

"  Why  I  shall  be  bold  enough  to  reconcile  matters  with  a 
kiss,  Mrs.  Bingo,"  answered  the  youth. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  shouted  the  tall  gypsy  ;  "  it  is  many  a  long  day 
since  my  old  Mort  slapped  a  gallant's  face  for  such  an  affront. 
But  here  come  our  messmates.  Good  evening,  my  mumpers — 
make  your  bows  to  this  gentleman,  who  has  come  to  bowse 
with  us  to-night.  'Gad,  we'll  show  him  that  old  ale's  none  the 
worse  for  keeping  company  with  the  moon's  darlings. — Come, 
sit  down,  sit  down.  Where's  the  cloth,  ye  ill-mannered  loons, 
and  the  knives  and  platters  ?  Have  we  no  holiday  customs  for 
strangers,  think  ye  ? — Mim,  my  cove,  off  to  my  caravan — bring 
out  the  knives,  and  all  other  rattletraps  ;  and  harkye,  my  cuffin, 
this  small  key  opens  the  inner  hole,  where  you  will  find  two 
barrels  ;  bring  one  of  them.  I'll  warrant  it  of  the  best,  for  the 
brewer  himself  drank  some  of  the  same  sort  but  two  hours 
before  I  nimmd  them.     Come,  stump,  my  cull,  make  yourself 

■  *  Prince  Arthur. — Sec  The  Fairy  Queen, 


THE   DISOWNED.  13 

tvlngs.  Ho,  Dame  Bingo,  is  not  that  pot  of  thine  seething 
yet  ? — Ah,  my  young  gentleman,  you  commence  betimes ;  so 
much  the  better ;  if  love's  a  summer's  day,  we  all  know  how 
early  a  summer  morning  begins,"  added  the  jovial  Egyptian, 
in  a  lower  voice  (feeling  perhaps  that  he  was  only  understood 
by  himself),  as  he  gazed  complacently  on  the  youth,  who,  with 
that  happy  facility  of  making  himself  everywhere  at  home,  so 
uncommon  to  his  countrymen,  was  already  paying  compliments, 
suited  to  their  understanding,  to  two  fair  daughters  of  the  tribe, 
who  had  entered  with  the  newcomers.  Yet  had  he  too  much 
craft  or  delicacy,  call  it  which  you  will,  to  continue  his 
addresses  to  that  limit  where  ridicule  or  jealousy,  from  the  male 
part  of  the  assemblage,  might  commence  ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
soon  turned  to  the  men,  and  addressed  them  with  a  familiarity 
so  frank,  and  so  suited  to  their  taste,  that  he  grew  no  less 
rapidly  in  their  favor  than  he  had  already  done  in  that  of  the 
women,  and  when  the  contents  of  the  two  caldrons  were  at 
length  set  upon  the  coarse,  but  clean,  cloth,  which,  in  honor  of 
his  arrival,  covered  the  sod,  it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  loud  and 
universal  peal  of  laughter,  which  some  broad  witticism  of  the 
young  stranger  had  produced,  that  the  party  sat  down  to  their 
repast. 

Bright  were  the  eyes  and  sleek  the  tresses  of  the  damsel 
who  placed  herself  by  the  side  of  the  stranger,  and  many  were 
the  alluring  glances  and  insinuated  compliments  which  replied 
to  his  open  admiration  and  profuse  flattery;  but  still  there  was 
nothing  exclusive  in  his  attentions  ;  perhaps  an  ignorance  of  the 
customs  of  his  entertainers,  and  a  consequent  discreet  fear  of 
offending  them,  restrained  him  ;  or  perhaps  he  found  ample  food 
for  occupation  in  the  plentiful  dainties  which  his  host  heaped 
before  him. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  the  gypsy  chief  (for  chief  he  appeared 
to  be),  "  if  we  lead  not  a  merrier  life  than  you  dreamt  of  ?  or 
would  you  have  us  change  our  coarse  fare  and  our  simple 
tents,  our  vigorous  limbs  and  free  hearts,  for  the  meagre 
board,  the  monotonous  chamber,  the  diseased  frame,  and 
the  toiling,  careful,  and  withered  spirit  of  some  miserable 
mechanic  ?" 

"  Change  ! "  cried  the  youth,  with  an  earnestness  which,  if 
affected,  was  an  exquisite  counterfeit — "  By  Heaven,  I  would 
change  with  you  myself." 

"  Bravo,  my  fine  cove  !"  cried  the  host,  and  all  the  gang 
echoed  their  sympathy  with  his  applause. 

The  youth  continued ;  *'  Meat,  and  that  plentiful ;  ale,  and 


14  THE    DISOWNED, 

that  Strong  ;  women,  and  those  pretty  ones  ;  what  can  man  desire 
more !  " 

"  Ay,"  cried  the  host,  "  and  all  for  nothing, — no  not  even  a 
tax  ;  who  else  in  this  kingdom  can  say  that  ?  Come,  Mim,  push 
round  the  ale." 

And  the  ale  was  pushed  round,  and  if  coarse  the  merriment, 
loud  at  least  was  the  laugh  that  rung  ever  and  anon  from  the  old 
tent ;  and  though,  at  moments,  something  in  the  guest's  eye  and 
lip  might  have  seemed,  to  a  very  shrewd  observer,  a  little  wander- 
ing and  absent,  yet,  upon  the  whole,  he  was  almost  as  much  at 
ease  as  the  rest,  and  if  he  was  not  quite  as  talkative,  he  was  to 
the  full  as  noisy. 

By  degrees,  as  the  hour  grew  later,  and  the  barrel  less  heavy, 
the  conversation  changed  into  one  universal  clatter.  Some  told 
their  feats  in  beggary  ;  others  their  achievements  in  theft ;  not  a 
viand  they  had  fed  on  but  had  its  appropriate  legend  ;  even  the 
old  rabbit,  which  had  been  as  tough  as  old  rabbit  can  well  be, 
had  not  been  honestly  taken  from  his  burrow  ;  no  less  a  person 
than  Mim  himself  had  purloined  it  from  a  widow's  footman, 
who  was  carrying  it  to  an  old  maid  from  her  nephew  the 
Squire, 

"  Silence,"  cried  the  host,  who  loved  talking  as  well  as  the 
rest,  and  who,  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  had  been  vainly  endeavor- 
ing to  obtain  attention.  "  Silence  !  my  maunders,  it's  late,  and 
we  shall  have  the  queer  cuffins*  upon  us  if  we  keep  it  up  much 
longer.  What,  ho,  Mim,  are  you  still  gabbling  at  the  foot  of  the 
table,  when  your  betters  are  talking?  As  sure  as  my  name's 
King  Cole,  I'll  choke  you  with  your  own  rabbit  skin,  if  you 
don't  hush  your  prating  cheat — nay,  never  look  so  abashed — if 
you  will  make  a  noise,  come  forward,  and  sing  us  a  gypsy  song. 
You  see,  my  young  sir  (turning  to  his  guest),  that  we  are  not 
without  our  pretensions  to  the  fine  arts." 

At  this  order,  Mim  started  forth,  and  taking  his  station  at  the 
right  hand  of  the  sol-dlsanl  King  Cole,  began  the  following  song, 
the  chorus  of  which  was  chaunted  in  full  diapason  by  the  whole 
group,  with  the  additional  force  of  emphasis  that  knives,  feet, 
and  fists  could  bestow. 

THE   GYPSY'S  SONG. 

The  king  to  his  hall,  and  the  steed  to  his  stall, 

And  the  cit  to  his  bilking  board  ; 
But  we  are  not  Iwund  to  an  acre  of  ground. 

For  our  home  is  the  houseless  sward. 

♦  Magistrates, 


THE   DISOWNED.  Ig 

We  sow  not,  nor  toil ;  yet  we  glean  from  the  soil 

As  much  as  its  reapers  do  ; 
And  wherever  we  rove,  we  feed  on  the  cove 

Who  gibes  at  the  mumping  crew. 

Chorus — So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc 

We  care  not  a  straw  for  the  limbs  of  the  law, 

Nor  a  fig  for  the  cuffin  queer ; 
While  Hodge  and  his  neighbor  shall  lavish  and  labor, 

Our  tent  is  as  sure  of  its  cheer. 

Chorus — So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

The  worst  have  an  awe  of  the  harman's  *  claw. 

And  the  best  will  avoid  the  trap  ;  f 
But  our  wealth  is  as  free  of  the  bailiff's  see. 

As  our  necks  of  the  twisting  crap.  \ 

Chorus— So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

They  say  it  is  sweet  to  win  the  meat 

For  the  which  one  has  sorely  wrought ; 
But  I  never  could  find  that  we  lack'd  the  mind 

For  the  food  that  has  cost  us  nought  ! 
Chorus — So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

And  when  we  have  ceased  from  our  fearless  feast. 

Why,  onr  Jigger  §  will  need  no  bars  ; 
Our  sentry  shall  be  on  the  owlet's  tree. 

And  our  lamps  the  glorious  stars. 

Chorus. 

So  the  king  to  his  hall,  and  the  steed  to  his  stall. 

And  the  cit  to  his  bilking  board; 
But  we  are  not  bound  to  an   acre  of  ground. 

For  our  home  is  the  houseless  sward. 

Rude  as  was  this  lawless  stave,  the  spirit  with  which  it  was 
sung  atoned  to  the  young  stranger  for  its  obscurity  and  quaint- 
ness  ;  as  for  his  host,  that  curious  personage  took  a  lusty  and 
prominent  part  in  the  chorus — nor  did  the  old  woods  refuse 
their  share  of  the  burden,  but  sent  back  a  merry  echo  to 
the  chief's  deep  voice,  and  the  harsher  notes  of  his  jovial 
brethren. 

When  the  glee  had-  ceased,  King  Cole  rose,  the  whole  band 
followed  his  example,  the  cloth  was  cleared  in  a  trice,  the  barrel — 
oh  !  what  a  falling  off  was  there  ! — was  rolled  into  a  corner  of  the 
tent,  and  the  crew  to  whom  the  awning  belonged  began  to  settle 
themselves  to  rest;  while  those  who  owned  the  other  encamp- 
ment marched  forth,  with  King  Cole  at  their  head.  Leaning 
with  no  light  weight  upon  his  guest's  arm,  the  lover  of  ancient 
minstrelsy  poured   into   the  youth's   ear  a   strain  of  eulogy, 

♦  Constable.       +  Bailiff.       %  Gallows.        §  DoOr. 


l6  tHE  DISOWNED. 

rather  eloquent  than  coherent,  upon  the  scene  they  had  just 
witnessed. 

"What,"  cried  his  majesty,  in  an  enthusiastic  tone,  "what  can 
be  so  truly  regal  as  our  state?  Can  any  man  control  us?  Are 
we  not  above  all  laws?  Are  we  not  the  most  despotic  of  kings? 
Nay,  more  than  the  kings  of  earth — are  we  not  the  kings  of  Fairy- 
land itself?  Do  we  not  realize  the  golden  dreams  of  the  old 
rhymers — luxurious  dogs  that  they  were  ?  Who  would  not  cry 
out: 

"  Blest  silent  groves  !    O  may  ye  be 
For  ever  Mirth's  best  nursery  ! 
May  pure  Contents 
For  ever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  downs,  these  meads,  these  rocks,  these  mountains." 

Uttering  this  notable  extract  from  the  thrice-honored  Sir 
Henry  Wotton,  King  Cole  turned  abruptly  from  the  common, 
entered  the  wood  which  skirted  it,  and  only  attended  by  his 
guest,  and  his  minister  Mim,  came  suddenly,  by  an  unexpected 
and  picturesque  opening  in  the  trees,  upononeof  those  itinerant 
vehicles  termed  caravans  ;  he  ascended  the  few  steps  which  led 
to  the  entrance,  opened  the  door,  and  was  instantly  in  the  arms 
of  a  pretty  and  young  woman.  On  seeing  our  hero  (for  such 
we  fear  the  youth  is  likely  to  become),  she  drew  back  with  a 
blush  not  often  found  upon  regal  cheeks. 

"  Pooh,"  said  King  Cole,  half  tauntingly,  half  fondly,  "pooh, 
Lucy,  blushes  are  garden  flowers,  and  ought  never  to  be  found 
wild  in  the  woods":  then  changing  his  tone,  he  said,  "  Come, 
put  some  fresh  straw  in  the  corner,  this  stranger  honors  our 
palace  to-night. — Mim  unload  thyself  of  our  royal  treasures — 
watch  without,  and  vanish  from  within  !  " 

Depositing  on  his  majesty's  floor  the  appurtenances  of  the 
regal  supper-table,  Mim  made  his  respectful  adieus,  and  dis- 
appeared ;  meanwhile  the  Queen  scattered  some  fresh  straw 
over  a  mattress  in  the  narrow  chamber,  and,  laying  over  all  a 
sheet  of  singularly  snowy  hue,  made  her  guest  some  apology  for 
the  badness  of  his  lodging;  this  King  Cole  interrupted,  by  a 
most  elaborately  noisy  yawn,  and  a  declaration  of  extreme  sleep- 
iness. "  Now,  Lucy,  let  us  leave  the  gentleman  to  what  he 
will  like  better  than  soft  words,  even  from  a  queen.  Good- 
night, sir,  we  shall  be  stirring  at  daybreak";  and,  with  this 
farewell,  King  Cole  took  the  lady's  arm,  and  retired  with  her 
into  an  inner  compartment  of  the  caravan. 

Left  to  himself,  our  hero  looked  round  with  surprise  at  the 
exceeding  neatness  which  reigned  over  the  whole  apartment. 


THE  DISOWNED.  tf 

But  what  chiefly  engrossed  the  attention  of  one  to  whose  early 
habits  books  had  always  been  treasures,  were  several  volumes, 
ranged  in  comely  shelves,  fenced  with  wire-work,  on  either  side 
of  the  fireplace.  "Courage,"  thought  he,  as  he  stretched  him- 
self on  his  humble  couch,  "  my  adventures  have  commenced 
well;  a  gipsy  tent,  to  be  sure,  is  nothing  very  new,  but  a  gipsy 
who  quotes  poetry,  and  enjoys  a  modest  wife,  speaks  better 
than  books  do  for  the  improvement  of  the  world  !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

'*  Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ! " — As  You  Like  It. 

The  sun  broke  cheerfully  through  the  small  lattice  of  the 
caravan,  as  the  youth  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  the  good- 
humored  countenance  of  his  gipsy  host  bending  over  him  com- 
placently. 

"  You  slept  so  soundly,  sir,  that  I  did  not  like  to  disturb  you; 
but  my  good  wife  only  waits  your  rising  to  have  all  ready  for 
breakfast." 

"It  were  a  thousand  pities,"  cried  the  guest,  leaping  from  his 
bed,  "  that  so  pretty  a  face  should  look  cross  on  my  account, 
so  I  will  not  keep  her  waiting  an  instant." 

The  gipsy  smiled,  as  he  answered,  "  I  require  no  professional 
help  from  the  devil,  sir,  to  foretell  your  fortune." 

"  No  ! — and  what  is  it  ? " 

"  Honor,  reputation,  success,  all  that  are  ever  won  by  a  soft 
tongue,  if  it  be  backed  by  a  bold  heart." 

Bright  and  keen  was  the  flash  which  shot  over  the  counte- 
nance of  the  one  for  whom  this  prediction  was  made,  as  he 
listened  to  it  with  a  fondness  for  which  his  reason  rebuked  him. 
He  turned  aside  with  a  sigh,  which  did  not  escape  the  gipsy, 
and  bathed  his  face  in  the  water  which  the  provident  hand  of 
the  good  woman  had  set  out  for  his  lavations. 

"  Well,"  said  the  host,  when  the  youth  had  finished  his  brief 
toilet,  "  suppose  we  breathe  the  fresh  air,  while  Lucy  smooths 
your  bed,  and  prepares  the  breakfast." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  youth,  and  they  descended 
the  steps  which  led  into  the  wood.  It  was  a  beautiful,  fresh 
morning,  the  air  was  like  a  draught  from  a  Spirit's  fountain, 
and  filled  the  heart  with  new  youth,  and  the  blood  with  a  rap- 
turous delight;  the  leaves — the  green,  green  leaves  of  spring — • 


1 8  THE  disowned; 

were  quivering  on  the  trees ;  among  which  the  happy  birds 
fluttered  and  breathed  the  gladness  of  their  souls  in  song. 
While  the  dewdrops  that 

"  strewed 
A  baptism  o'er  the  flowers  " 

gave  back,  in  their  million  mirrors,  the  reflected  smiles  of  the 
cloudless  and  rejoicing  sun. 

'*  Nature,"  said  the  gypsy,  "has  bestov/ed  on  her  children  a 
gorgeous  present  in  such  a  morning." 

"True,"  said  the  youth;  "and  you,  of  us  two,  perhaps,  only 
deserve  it:  as  for  me,  when  I  think  of  the  long  road  of  dust, 
heat,  and  toil,  that  lies  before  me,  I  could  almost  wish  to  stop 
her  and  ask  an  admission  into  the  gypsy's  tents." 

"You  could  not  do  a  wiser  thing  ! "  said  the  gypsy  gravely. 

"  But  fate  leaves  leaves  me  no  choice,"  continued  the  youth, 
as  seriously  as  if  he  were  in  earnest;  "and  I  must  quit  you 
immediately  after  I  have  a  second  time  tasted  of  your  hospi- 
table fare." 

"  If  it  must  be  so,"  answered  the  gypsy,  "  I  will  see  you  at  least 
a  mile  or  two  on  your  road."  The  youth  thanked  him  for  a 
promise  which  his  curiosity  made  acceptable,  and  they  turned 
once  more  to  the  caravan. 

The  meal,  however  obtained,  met  with  as  much  honor  as  it 
could  possibly  have  received  from  the  farmer  from  whom  its 
materials  were  borrowed. 

It  was  not  without  complacency  that  the  worthy  pair  belield 
the  notice  their  guest  lavished  upon  a  fair,  curly-headed  boy  of 
about  three  years  old,  the  sole  child  and  idol  of  the  gypsy  po- 
tentates. But  they  did  not  perceive,  when  the  youth  rose  to 
depart,  that  he  slipped  into  the  folds  of  the  child's  dress  a  ring 
of  some  value,  the  only  one  he  possessed. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  after  having  thanked  his  entertainers 
for  their  hospitality,  "  I  must  say  good  by  to  your  flock,  and  set 
out  upon  my  day's  journey." 

Lucy,  despite  her  bashfulness,  shook  hands  with  her  hand- 
some guest,  and  the  latter  accompanied  by  the  gypsy  chief, 
strolled  down  to  the  encampments. 

Open  and  free  was  his  parting  farewell  to  the  inmates  of  the 
two  tents,  and  liberal  was  the  hand  which  showered  upon  all — 
especially  on  the  damsel  who  had  been  his  Thais  of  the  even- 
ing feast — the  silver  coins  which  made  no  inconsiderable  por- 
tion of  his  present  property. 

It  was  amidst  the  oracular  wishes  and  favorable  predictions 


THE    DISOWNED,  I^. 

Df  the  whole  crew,  that  he  recommenced  his  journey  with  the 
gypsy  chief. 

When  the  tents  were  fairly  out  of  sight,  and  not  till  then, 
King  Cole  broke  the  silence  which  had  as  yet  subsisted  between 
them. 

"I  suppose,  my  young  gentleman,  that  you  expect  to  meet 

some  of  your  friends  or  relations  at  W ?     I  know  not  what 

they  will  say  when  they  hear  where  you  have  spent  the  night." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  youth  ;  "  whoever  hears  my  adventures, 
relation  or  not,  will  be  delighted  with  my  description  ;  but  in 

sober  earnest,  I  expect  to  find  no  one  at  W more  my  friend 

than  a  surly  innkeeper,  unless  it  be  his  dog." 

"Why,  they  surely  do  not  suffer  a  stripling  of  your  youth 
and  evident  quality  to  wander  alone  ! "  cried  King  Cole,  in  un- 
disguised surprise. 

The  young  traveller  made  no  prompt  answer,  but  bent  down 
as  if  to  pluck  a  wild  flower  which  grew  by  the  roadside  :  after 
a  pause,  he  said  : 

"  Nay,  Master  Cole,  you  must  not  set  me  the  example  of  play- 
ing the  inquisitor,  or  you  cannot  guess  how  troublesome  I  shall 
be.  To  tell  you  truth,  I  am  dying  with  curiosity  to  know  some- 
thing more  about  you  than  you  may  be  disposed  to  tell  me  :  you 
have  already  confessed  that,  however  boon  companions  your 
gypsies  may  be,  it  is  not  among  gypsies  that  you  were  born  and 
bred." 

King  Cole  laughed :  perhaps  he  was  not  ill  pleased  by  the 
curiosity  of  his  guest,  nor  by  the  opportunity  it  afforded  him  of 
being  his  own  hero. 

'*  My  story,  sir,"  said  he,  "  would  be  soon  told,  if  you  thought 
it  worth  the  hearing,  nor  does  it  contain  anything  which  should 
prevent  my  telling  it." 

"If  so,"  quoth  the  youth,  "I  shall  conceive  your  satisfying 
my  request  a  still  greater  favor  than  those  you  have  already  be- 
stowed upon  me." 

The  gypsy  relaxed  his  pace  into  an  indolent  saunter,  as  he 
commenced  : 

"  The  first  scene  that  I  remember  was  similar  to  that  which 
you  witnessed  last  night.  The  savage  tent,  and  the  green 
moor — the  faggot  blaze — the  eternal  pot,  with  its  hissing  note 
of  preparation — the  old  dame  who  tended  it,  and  the  ragged 
urchins  who  learnt  from  its  contents  the  first  reward  of  theft, 
and  the  earliest  temptation  to  it — all  these  are  blended  into 
agreeable  confusion  as  the  primal  impressions  of  my  childhood. 
The  wonjan  who  nurtured  me  as  my  mother  was  rather  capri- 


20  THE    DISOWNED. 

cious  than  kind,  and  my  infancy  passed  away,  like  that  of  more 
favored  scions  of  fortune,  in  alternate  chastisement  and  caresses. 
In  good  truth,  Kinching  Meg  had  the  shrillest  voice  and  the 
heaviest  hand  of  the  whole  crew,  and  I  cannot  complain  of  in- 
justice, since  she  treated  me  no  worse  than  the  rest.  Notwith- 
standing the  irregularity  of  my  education,  I  grew  up  strong  and 
healthy,  and  my  reputed  mother  had  taught  me  so  much  fear 
for  herself  that  she  left  me  none  for  anything  else  ;  accordingly, 
1  became  bold,  reckless,  and  adventurous,  and  at  the  age  of 
thirteen  was  as  thorough  a  reprobate  as  the  tribe  could  desire. 
At  that  time  a  singular  change  befell  me  :  we  (that  is  my 
mother  and  myself)  were  begging  not  many  miles  hence,  at  the 
door  of  a  rich  man's  house,  in  which  the  mistress  lay  on  her 
death-bed.  That  mistress  was  my  real  mother,  from  whom  Meg 
had  stolen  me  in  my  first  year  of  existence.  Whether  it  was 
through  the  fear  of  conscience,  or  the  hope  of  reward,  no  sooner 
had  Meg  learnt  the  dangerous  state  of  my  poor  mother,  the 
constant  grief  which  they  said  been  the  sole,  though  slow,  cause 
of  her  disease,  and  the  large  sums  which  had  been  repeatedly 
offered  for  my  recovery ;  no  sooner,  I  say,  did  Meg  ascertain 
all  these  particulais,  than  she  fought  her  way  up  to  the  sick 
chamber,  fell  on  her  knees  before  the  bed,  owned  her  crime, 
and  produced  myself.  Various  little  proofs  of  time,  place,  cir- 
cumstance ;  the  clothing  I  had  worn  when  stolen,  and  which 
was  still  preserved,  joined  to  the  striking  likeness  I  bore  to  both 
my  parents,  especially  to  my  father,  silenced  all  doubt  and  in- 
credulity ;  I  was  welcomed  home  with  a  joy  which  it  is  in  vain 
to  describe.  My  return  seemed  to  recall  my  mother  from  the 
grave  ;  she  lingered  on  for  many  months  longer  than  her  physi- 
cians thought  it  possible,  and  when  she  died,  her  last  words  com- 
mended me  to  my  father's  protection. 

"  My  surviving  parent  needed  no  such  request.  He  lavished 
upon  me  all  that  superfluity  of  fondness  and  food,  of  which 
those  good  people  who  are  resolved  to  spoil  their  children  are 
so  prodigal.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  sending  me  to 
school  ;  accordingly  he  took  a  tutor  for  me,  a  simple-hearted, 
gentle,  kind  man  who  possessed  avast  store  of  learning,  rather 
curious  than  useful.  He  was  a  tolerable,  and  at  least  an  enthu- 
siastic, antiquarian — a  more  than  tolerable  poetaster  ;  and  he 
had  a  prodigious  budget  full  of  old  ballads  and  songs,  which  he 
loved  better  to  teach  and  /  to  learn,  than  all  the  *  Latin,  Greek, 
geography,  astronomy,  and  the  use  of  the  globes,'  which  my 
poor  father  had  so  sedulously  bargained  for. 

"  Accordingly,  I  becanje  exceedingly  well-informed  in  all  the 


THE    DISOWNED.  21 

'precious  conceits  '  and  ' golden  garlands'  of  our  British  an- 
cients, and  continued  exceedingly  ignorant  of  everything  else, 
save  and  except  a  few  of  the  most  fashionable  novels  of  the 
day,  and  the  contents  of  six  lying  volumes  of  voyages  and  trav- 
els, which  flattered  both  my  appetite  for  the  wonderful  and  my 
love  of  the  adventurous.  My  studies,  such  as  they  were,  were 
not  by  any  means  suited  to  curb  or  direct  the  vagrant  tastes  my 
childhood  had  acquired  :  on  the  contrary,  the  old  poets,  with 
their  luxurious  description  of  the  '  green  wood,'  and  the  forest 
life  ;  the  fashionable  novelists,  with  their  spirited  accounts  of 
the  wanderings  of  some  fortunate  rogue,  and  the  ingenious  trav- 
ellers, with  their  wild  fables,  so  dear  to  the  imagination  of  every 
boy,  only  fomented  within  me  a  strong  though  secret  regret  at 
my  change  of  life,  and  a  restless  disgust  to  the  tame  home  and 
bounded  roamings  to  which  I  was  condemned.  When  I  was 
about  seventeen,  my  father  sold  his  property  (which  he  had  be- 
come possessed  of  in  right  of  my  mother),  and  transferred  the 
purchase-money  to  the  security  of  the  funds.  Shortly  after- 
wards he  died ;  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  became  mine  ;  the  re- 
mainder was  settled  upon  a  sister,  many  years  older  than  myself, 
who,  in  consequence  of  her  marriage  and  residence  in  a  remote 
part  of  Wales,  I  had  never  yet  seen. 

"  Now,  then.  I  was  perfectly  free  and  unfettered  ;  my  guar- 
dian lived  in  Scotland,  and  left  me  entirely  to  the  guidance  of 
my  tutor,  who  was  both  too  simple  and  too  indolent  to  resist 
my  inclinations.  I  went  to  London,  became  acquainted  with 
a  set  of  most  royal  scamps,  frequented  the  theaters,  and  the 
taverns,  the  various  resorts  which  constitute  the  gayeties  of  a 
blood  just  above  the  middle  class,  and  was  one  of  the  noisiest 
and  wildest  'blades'  that  ever  heard  'the  chimes  by  midnight,' 
and  the  magistrate's  lecture  for  matins.  I  was  a  sort  of  leader 
among  the  jolly  dogs  I  consorted  with.  My  earlier  education 
gave  a  raciness  and  nature  to  my  delineations  of  *  life,'  which 
delighted  them.  But  somehow  or  other  I  grew  wearied  of  this 
sort  of  existence.  About  a  year  after  I  was  of  age,  my  fortune 
was  more  than  three  parts  spent ;  I  fell  ill  with  drinking,  and 
grew  dull  with  remorse  ;  need  I  add  that  my  comrades  left  me 
to  myself  ?  A  fit  of  the  spleen,  especially  if  accompanied  with 
duns,  makes  one  wofuUy  misanthropic  ;  so,  when  I  recovered 
from  my  illness,  I  set  out  on  a  tour  through  Great  Britain  and 
France — alone,  and  principally  on  foot.  Oh,  the  rapture  of 
shaking  off  the  half  friends  and  cold  formalities  of  society,  and 
finding  oneself  all  unfettered,  with  no  companion  but  nature, 
no  guide  but  youth,  and  no  flatterer  but  hope  ! 


22  THE    DISOWNED. 

**  Well,  my  young  friend,  I  travelled  for  two  years,  and  saw, 
even  in  that  short  time,  enough  of  this  busy  world  to  weary  and 
disgust  me  with  its  ordinary  customs.  I  was  not  made  to  be 
polite,  still  less  to  be  ambitious.  I  sighed  after  the  coarse  com- 
rades and  the  free  tents  of  my  first  associates,  and  a  thousand 
remembrances  of  the  gipsy  wanderings,  steeped  in  all  the  green 
and  exhilarating  colors  of  childhood,  perpetually  haunted  my 
mind.  On  my  return  from  my  wanderings,  I  found  a  letter 
from  my  sister,  who,  having  become  a  widow,  had  left  Wales, 
and  had  now  fixed  her  residence  in  a  well-visited  watering- 
place  in  the  west  of  England.  I  had  never  yet  seen  her,  and 
her  letter  was  a  fine,  lady-like  sort  of  epistle,  with  a  great  deal 
of  romance  and  a  very  little  sense,  written  in  an  extremely 
pretty  hand,  and  ending  with  a  quotation  from  Pope.  (I  never 
could  endure  Pope,  nor  indeed  any  of  the  poets  of  the  days  of 
Anne  and  her  successors.)  It  was  a  beautiful  season  of  the 
year ;  I  had  been  inured  to  pedestrian  excursions,  so  I  set  off 
on  foot  to  see  my  nearest-surviving  relative.  On  the  way,  I 
fell  in  (though  on  a  very  different  spot)  with  the  very  encamp- 
ment you  saw  last  night.  By  Heavens,  that  was  a  merry  meet- 
ing to  me  ;  I  joined,  and  journeyed  with  them  for  several  days — 
never  do  I  remember  a  happier  time.  Then,  after  many  years 
of  bondage  and  stiffness,  and  accordance  with  the  world,  I 
found  myself  at  ease,  like  a  released  bird  ;  with  what  zest  did  I 
join  in  the  rude  jokes  and  the  knavish  tricks,  the  stolen  feasts 
and  the  roofless  nights  of  those  careless  vagabonds. 

"  I  left  my  fellow-travellers  at  the  entrance  of  the  town  where 
my  sister  lived.  Now  came  the  contrast.  Somewhat  hot,  rather 
coarsely  clad,  and  covered  with  the  dust  of  a  long  summer's 
day,  I  was  ushered  into  a  little  drawing-room,  eighteen  feet  by 
twelve,  as  I  was  afterward  somewhat  pompously  informed.  A 
flaunting  carpet,  green,  red  and  yellow,  covered  the  floor.  A 
full-length  picture  of  a  thin  woman,  looking  most  agreeably  ill- 
tempered,  stared  down  at  me  from  the  chimney-piece;  three 
stuffed  birds — how  emblematic  of  domestic  life  ! — stood  stiff 
and  imprisoned,  even  after  death,  in  a  glass  cage.  A  fire-screen, 
and  a  bright  fireplace  ;  chairs  covered  with  holland,  to  preserve 
them  from  the  atmosphere ;  and  long  mirrors,  wrapped  as  to 
the  framework,  in  yellow  muslin,  to  keep  off  the  flies,  finish  the 
panorama  of  this  watering-place  mansion.  The  door  opened — 
silks  rustled — voice  shrieked  *  My  Brother  ! '  and  a  figure — a 
thin  figure — the  original  of  the  picture  over  the  chimney-piece — 
rushed  in." 

*'  I  can  well  fancy  her  joy,"  said  the  youth. 


THE   DISOWNED.  2^ 

"  You  can  do  no  such  thing,  begging  your  pardon,  sir,"  re- 
sumed King  Cole.  "  She  had  no  joy  at  all :  she  was  exceed* 
ingly  surprised  and  disappointed.  In  spite  of  my  early  adven- 
tures, I  had  nothing  picturesque  or  romantic  about  me  at  aU. 
I  was  very  thirsty,  and  I  called  for  beer;  I  was  very  tired,  and 
I  lay  down  on  the  sofa  ;  I  wore  thick  shoes,  and  small  buckles  ; 
and  my  clothes  were  made,  God  knows  where,  and  were  cer- 
tainly put  on  God  knows  how.  My  sister  was  miserably  ashamed 
of  me  ;  she  had  not  even  the  manners  to  disguise  it.  In  a 
higher  rank  of  life  than  that  which  she  held,  she  would  have 
suffered  far  less  mortification  ;  for  I  fancy  great  people  pay  but 
little  real  attention  to  externals.  Even  if  a  man  of  rank  is  vul- 
gar, it  makes  no  difference  in  the  orbit  in  which  he  moves  ;  but 
your  'genteel  gentlewomen'  are  so  terribly  dependent  upon 
what  Mrs.  Tomkins  will  say — so  very  uneasy  about  their  rela- 
tions, and  the  opinion  they  are  held  in — and,  above  all,  so 
made  up  of  appearances  and  clothes — so  undone  if  they  do  not 
eat,  drink,  and  talk  ^la-mode,  that  I  can  fancy  no  shame  like 
that  of  my  poor  sister  at  having  found,  and  being  found  with,  a 
vulgar  brother. 

"  I  saw  how  unwelcome  I  was,  and  I  did  not  punish  myself 
by  a  long  visit.  I  left  her  house,  and  returned  toward  London. 
On  my  road,  I  again  met  with  my  gypsy  friends  ;  the  warmth 
of  their  welcome  enchanted  me — you  may  guess  the  rest.  I 
stayed  with  them  so  long  that  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  ; 
I  re-entered  their  crew  :  I  am  one  among  them.  Not  that  I 
have  become  altogether  and  solely  of  the  tribe  :  I  still  leave 
them  whenever  the  whim  seizes  me,  and  repair  to  the  great 
cities  and  thoroughfares  of  man.  There  I  am  soon  driven  back 
again  to  my  favorite  and  fresh  fields,  as  a  reed  upon  a  wild 
stream  is  dashed  back  upon  the  green  rushes  from  which  it  has 
been  torn.  You  perceive  that  I  have  many  comforts  and  dis- 
tinctions above  the  rest ;  for,  alas,  sir,  there  is  no  society,  how- 
ever  free  and  democratic,  where  wealth  will  not  create  an  aris- 
tocracy ;  the  remnant  of  my  fortune  provides  me  with  my  un- 
ostentatious equipage,  and  the  few  luxuries  it  contains  ;  it  repays 
secretly  to  the  poor  what  my  fellow-vagrants  occasionally  filch 
from  them  ;  it  allows  me  to  curb  among  the  crew  all  the  grosser 
and  heavier  offences  against  the  law  to  which  want  might  other- 
wise compel  them  ;  and  it  serves  to  keep  up  that  sway  and  as- 
cendancy which  my  superior  education  and  fluent  spirits  en- 
abled me  at  first  to  attain.  Though  not  legally  their  king,  I 
assume  that  title  over  the  few  encampments  with  which  I  am 
accustomed  to  travel,  and  you  perceive  that  I  have  given  my 


54  T^HE  t)lSOWNEi>. 

simple  name  both  to  the  jocular  and  kingly  dignity  of  which 
the  old  song  will  often  remind  you.     My  story  is  done." 

"  Not  quite,"  said  his  companion  :  "your  wife?  How  came 
you  by  that  blessing?" 

"Ah!  thereby  hangs  a  pretty  and  a  love-sick  tale,  which 
would  not  sound  ill  in  an  ancient  ballad  ;  but  I  will  content 
myself  with  briefly  sketching  it.  Lucy  is  the  daughter  of  a 
gentleman  farmer  ;  about  four  years  ago  I  fell  in  love  with  her, 
I  wooed  her  clandestinely,  and  at  last  I  owned  I  was  a  gypsy ; 
I  did  not  add  my  birth  nor  fortune — no,  I  was  full  of  the  ro- 
mance of  the  Nut-brown  Maid's  lover,  and  attempted  a  trial  of 
woman's  affection,  which  even  in  these  days  was  not  disap- 
pointed. Still  her  father  would  not  consent  to  our  marriage, 
till  very  luckily  things  went  bad  with  him  ;  corn,  crops,  cattle — 
the  deuce  was  in  them  all  ;  an  execution  was  in  his  house,  and 
a  writ  out  against  his  person.  I  settled  these  matters  for  him, 
and  in  return  received  a  father-in-law's  blessing,  and  we  are 
now  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  Poor  Lucy  is  perfectly 
reconciled  to  her  caravan,  and  her  wandering  husband,  and  has 
never,  I  believe,  once  repented  the  day  on  which  she  became 
the  gypsy's  wife  !  " 

"  I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  history,"  said  the  youth,  who 
had  listened  very  attentively  to  this  detail  ;  "and  though  my 
happiness  and  pursuits  are  centred  in  that  world  which  you 
despise,  yet  I  confess  that  I  feel  a  sensation  very  like  envy  at 
your  singular  choice  ;  and  I  would  not  dare  to  ask  of  my  heart 
whether  that  choice  is  not  happier,  as  it  is  certainly  more  philo- 
sophical, than  mine." 

They  had  now  reached  a  part  of  the  road  where  the  country 
assumed  a  totally  different  character  ;  the  woods  and  moors 
were  no  longer  visible,  but  a  broad  and  somewhat  bleak  extent 
of  country  lay  before  them.  Here  and  there  only  a  few  soli- 
tary trees  broke  the  uniformity  of  the  wide  fields  and  scanty 
hedge-rows,  and  at  distant  intervals  the  thin  spires  of  the  scat- 
tered churches  rose  like  the  prayers,  of  which  they  were  the 
symbols,  to  mingle  themselves  with  heaven. 

The  gypsy  paused  :  "  I  will  accompany  you,"  said  he,  "  no 
farther  :  your  way  lies  straight  onwards,  and  you  will  reach 
W before  noon  ;  farewell,  and  may  God  watch  over  you  !" 

"  Farewell !"  said  the  youth  warmly  pressing  the  hand  which 
was  extended  to  him.  "If  we  ever  meet  again,  it  will  probably 
solve  a  curious  riddle,  viz.,  whether  you  are  not  disgusted  with 
the  caravan,  and  /  with  the  world  !  " 

"The  latter  is  more  likely  than  the  former,"  said  the  gypsy. 


ItUi.  DISOWNED.  25 

*'  for  one  stands  a  much  greater  chance  of  being  disgusted  with 
others  than  with  oneself  ;  so  changing  a  little  the  old  lines,  I 
will  wish  you  adieu  after  my  own  fashion,  viz.,  in  verse  : 

'  Go,  set  thy  heart  on  winged  wealth, 
Or  unto  honor's  towers  aspire  : 
But  give  me  freedom  and  my  health, 
And  there's  the  sum  of  my  desire  ! '  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  letter,  Madam — have  you  none  for  me  ? —  TAe  Rendezvous. 
Provide  surgeons. — I'he  Lover's  Progress. 

Our  solitary  traveller  pursued  his  way  with  the  light  step,  and 
gay  spirits,  of  youth  and  health. 

"Turn  gypsy,  indeed  !  "  he  said,  talking  to  himself  ;  "there 
is  something  better  in  store  for  me  than  that.  Ay,  1  have  all 
the  world  before  me  where  to  choose — not  my  place  of  rest. 
No,  many  a  long  year  will  pass  away  ere  any  place  of  rest  will 
be  my  choice !  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  find  the  letter  at 
W — —  ;  the  letter,  the  last  letter  I  shall  ever  have  from  home  : 
but  it  is  no  home  to  me  now  ;  and  / — /,  insulted,  reviled, 
trampled  upon,  without  even  a  name  ! — Well,  well,  I  will  earn  a 
still  faiier  one  than  that  of  my  forefathers.  They  shall  be  proud 
to  own  me  yet."  And  with  these  words  the  speaker  broke  off 
abruptly,  with  a  swelling  chest  and  a  flashing  eye  ;  and  as,  an 
unknown  and  friendless  adventurer,  he  gazed  on  the  expanded 
and  silent  country  around  him,  he  felt,  like  Castruccio  Cas- 
trucani,  that  he  could  stretch  his  hands  to  the  east  and  to  the 
west,  and  exclaim,  "  Oh,  that  my  power  kept  pace  with  my 
spirit,  then  should  it  grasp  the  corners  of  the  earth." 

The  road  wound  at  last  from  the  champaign  country,  through 
which  it  had  for  some  miles  extended  itself,  into  a  narrow  lane, 
girded  on  either  side  by  a  dead  fence.  As  the  youth  entered 
this  lane,  he  was  somewhat  startled  by  the.  abrupt  appearance 
of  a  horseman,  whose  steed  leaped  the  hedge  so  close  to  our 
hero  as  almost  to  endanger  his  safety.  The  rider,  a  gentleman 
of  about  five-and-twenty,  pulled  up,  and  in  a  tone  of  great 
courtesy,  apologized  for  his  inadvertency  ;  the  apology  was 
readily  admitted,  and  the  horseman  rode  onwards  in  the  direc- 
tion of  W . 

Trifling  as  this  incident  was,  the  air  and  mien  of  the  stranger 
were  sufficient  to  arrest,  irresistibly,  the  thoughts  of  the  young 


26  ItHi.  DISOWNED. 

traveller  ;  and  before  they  had  flowed  into  a  fresh  channel  he 
found  himself  in  the  town,  arid  at  the  door  of  the  inn  to  which 
his  expedition  was  bound.  He  entered  the  bar  ;  a  buxom 
landlady  and  a  still  more  buxom  daughter,  were  presiding  over 
the  spirits  of  the  place. 

"  You  have  some  boxes  and  a  letter  for  me,  I  believe,"  said 
the  young  gentleman  to  the  comely  hostess. 

"  To  you,  sir  !    the  name,  if  you  please  ?" 

**  To — to — CO  C —  L — ,"  said  the  youth  ;  "the  initials  C.  L., 
to  be  left  till  called  for." 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  have  some  luggage — came  last  night  by  the 
van, — and  a  letter  besides,  sir,  to  C.  L.  also." 

The  daughter  lifted  her  large  dark  eyes  at  the  handsome 
stranger,  and  felt  a  wonderful  curiosity  to  know  what  the 
letter  to  C.  L.  could  possibly  be  about  ;  meanwhile  mine 
hostess,  raising  her  hand  to  a  shelf  on  which  stood  an  Indian 
slop-basin,  the  great  ornament  of  the  bar  at  the  Golden 
Fleece,  brought  from  its  cavity  a  well-folded  and  well-sealed 
epistle. 

"  That  is  it,"  cried  the  youth  ;  "  show  me  a  private  room 
instantly." 

"  What  can  he  want  a  private  room  for  ? "  thought  the  land- 
lady's daughter. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  to  the  Griffin,  No.  4,  John  Merrylack," 
-Said  the  landlady  herself. 

With  an  impatient  step  the  owner  of  the  letter  followed  a 
slipshod  and  marvellously  unwashed  waiter  into  No.  4 — a  small, 
square  asylum  for  town  travellers,  country  yeomen,  and  "single 
gentlemen  "  ;  presenting  on  the  one  side,  an  admirable  engraving 
of  the  Marquis  of  Granby,  and  on  the  other  an  equally  delight- 
ful view  of  the  stable  yard. 

Mr.  C.  L.  flung  himself  on  a  chair  (there  were  only  four 
chairs  in  No.  4),  watched  the  waiter  out  of  the  room,  seized  his 
letter,  broke  open  the  seal,  and  read — yea,  reader,  ^f^w  shall 
read  it  too — as  follows  : 

'*  Inclosed  is  the  sum  to  which  you  are  entitled  ;  remember, 
that  it  is  all  which  you  can  ever  claim  at  my  hands  ;  remember, 
also,  that  jcw  have  made  the  choice  which,  now,  nothing  can 
persuade  me  to  alter.  Be  the  name  you  have  so  long  iniquit- 
ously  borne  henceforth  and  always  forgotten  ;  upon  that  con- 
dition you  may  yet  hope,  from  my  generosity,  the  future  assist- 
ance which  you  must  want,  but  which  you  could  not  ask  from 
my  affection.  Equally,  by  my  heart  and  my  reason,  you  are 
for  ever  disowned," 


THE   t>ISOWN£D.  &f 

The  letter  fell  from  the  reader's  hands.  He  took  up  the  en- 
closure •  it  was  an  order  payable  in  London  for  ^looo  ;  to 
him  it  seemed  like  the  rental  of  the  Indies. 

"Be  it  so  !  "  he  said  aloud,  and  slowly  ;  "be  it  so  !  With 
this  will  I  carve  my  way  ;  many  a  name  in  history  was  built 
upon  a  worse  foundation  !  " 

With  these  words  he  carefully  put  up  the  money,  re-read  the 
brief  note  which  enclosed  it,  tore  the  latter  into  pieces,  and 
then,  going  towards  the  aforesaid  view  of  the  stable-yard,  threw 
open  the  window  and  leant  out,  apparently  in  earnest  admira- 
tion of  two  pigs,  which  marched,  gruntingly,  towards  him,  one 
goat  regaling  himself  upon  a  cabbage,  and  a  broken-winded, 
emaciated  horse,  which  having  just  been,  what  the  ostler  called, 
"  rubbed  down,"  was  just  going  to  be,  what  the  ostler  called,"  fed." 

While  engaged  in  this  interesting  survey,  the  clatter  of  hoofs 
was  suddenly  heard  upon  the  rough  pavement — a  bell  rang — a 
dog  barked — the  pigs  grunted — the  ostler  ran  out,  and  the 
stranger,  whom  our  hero  had  before  met  on  the  road,  trotted 
into  the  yard. 

It  was  evident  from  the  obsequiousness  of  the  attendants, 
that  the  horseman  was  a  personage  of  no  mean  importance  ; 
and  indeed  there  was  something  singularly  distinguished  and 
high-bred  in  his  air  and  carriage. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?  "  said  the  youth,  as  the  horseman,  having 
dismounted,  turned  towards  the  door  of  the  inn  :  the  question 
was  readily  answered — "There  goes  pride  and  poverty  !  "  said 
the  ostler — "  Here  comes  Squire  Mordaunt !  "  said  the  landlady. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  stable-yard,  through  a  narrow  gate, 
the  youth  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  green  sward  and  springing 
flowers  of  a  small  garden.  Wearied  with  the  sameness  of  No. 
4,  rather  than  with  his  journey,  he  sauntered  towards  the  said 
gate,  and,  seating  himself  in  a  small  arbor  within  the  garden, 
surrendered  himself  to  reflection. 

The  result  of  this  self-conference  was  a  determination  to 
leave  the  Golden  Fleece  by  the  earliest  conveyance  which  went 
to  that  great  object  and  emporium  of  all  his  plans  and  thoughts, 
London.  As,  full  of  this  resolution,  and  buried  in  the  dream 
which  it  conjured  up,  he  was  returning  with  downcast  eyes  and 
unheeding  steps  through  the  stable-yard,  to  the  delights  of  No. 
4,  he  was  suddenly  accosted  by  a  loud  and  alarmed  voice  : ' 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,  look  out,  or — " 

The  sentence  was  broken  off,  tiie  intended  warning  came  too 
late,  our  hero  staggered  back  a  few  steps,  and  fell,  stunned  and 
motionless,  against  the  stable  door.     Unconsciously  he  had 


iS  THE  DISOWNED. 

passed  just  behind  the  heels  of  the  stranger's  horse,  which, 
being  by  no  means  in  good  humor  with  the  clumsy  manoeuvres 
of  his  Shampooer,  the  ostler,  had  taken  advantage  of  the  oppor- 
tunity presented  to  him  of  working  off  his  irritability,  and  had 
consequently  inflicted  a  severe  kick  upon  the  right  shoulder  of 
Mr.  C.  L. 

The  stranger,  honored  by  the  landlady  with  the  name  and 
title  of  Squire  Mordaunt  was  in  the  yard  at  the  moment.  He 
hastened  towards  the  sufferer,  who,  as  yet,  was  scarcely  sensible, 
and  led  him  into  the  house.  The  surgeon  of  the  village  was 
sent  for,  and  appeared.  This  disciple  of  Galen,  commonly 
known  by  the  name  of  Jeremiah  Bossolton,  was  a  gentleman 
considerably  more  inclined  to  breadth  than  length.  He  was 
exactly  five  feet  one  inch  in  height,  but  thick  and  solid  as  a 
milestone  ;  a  wig  of  modern  cut,  carefully  curled  and  powdered, 
gave  somewhat  of  a  modish,  and  therefore  unseemly,  grace,  to 
a  solemn  eye  ;  a  mouth  drawn  down  at  the  corners  ;  a  nose 
that  had  something  in  it  exceedingly  consequential  ;  eyebrows 
sage  and  shaggy  ;  ears  large  and  fiery  ;  and  a  chin  that  would 
have  done  honor  to  a  mandarin.  Now  Mr.  Jeremiah  Bossolton 
had  a  certain  peculiarity  of  speech  to  which  I  fear  I  shall  find 
it  difficult  to  do  justice.  Nature  had  impressed  upon  his  mind 
a  prodigious  love  of  the  grandiloquent ;  Mr.  Bossolton,  there- 
fore disdained  the  exact  language  of  the  vulgar,  and  built  unto 
himself  a  lofty  fabric  of  words  in  which  his  sense  managed  very 
frequently  to  lose  itself.  Moreover,  upon  beginning  a  sentence 
of  peculiar  dignity,  Mr.  Bossolton  was,  it  must  be  confessed, 
sometimes  at  a  loss  to  conclude  it  in  a  period  worthy  of  the 
commencement ;  and  this  caprice  of  nature,  which  had  endowed 
him  with  more  words  than  thoughts  (necessity  is,  indeed,  the 
mother  of  invention),  drove  him  into  a  very  ingenious  method 
of  remedying  the  deficiency  ;  this  was  simply  the  plan  of  re- 
peating the  sense  by  inverting  the  sentence. 

"How  long  a  period  of  time,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton,  "has 
elapsed  since  this  deeply-to-be-regretted  and  seriously-to-be- 
investigated  accident  occurred?" 

"  Not  many  minutes,"  said  Mordaunt :  "  make  no  further 
delay,  I  beseech  you,  but  examine  the  arm  ;  it  is  not  broken, 
I  trust  ? " 

"In  this  world,  Mr.  Mordaunt,"  said  the  practitioner,  bowing 
very  low,  for  the  person  he  addressed  was  of  the  most  ancient 
lineage  in  the  county,  "  in  this  world,  Mr.  Mordaunt,  even  at 
the  earliest  period  of  civilization,  delay  in  matters  of  judgment 
has  ever  been  considered  of  such  vital  importance,  and — and 


THE    DISOWNED.  SQ 

such  important  vitality,  that  we  find  it  inculcated  in  the  pro- 
verbs of  the  Greeks,  and  the  sayings  of  the  Chaldeans,  as  a 
principle  of  the  most  expedient  utility,  and — and — the  most 
useful  expediency  !  " 

"  Mr.  Bossolton,"  said  Mordaunt,  in  a  tone  of  remarkable  and 
even  artificial  softness  and  civility,"  have  the  kindness  immedi- 
ately to  examine  this  gentleman's  bruises." 

Mr.  Bossolton  looked  up  to  the  calm  but  haughty  face  of  the 
speaker,  and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  proceeded  to 
handle  the  arm,  which  was  already  stripped  for  his  survey. 

"  It  frequently  occurs,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton,  "in  the  course 
of  my  profession,  that  the  forcible,  sudden,  and  vehement  ap- 
plication of  any  hard  substance,  like  the  hoof  of  a  quadruped, 
to  the  soft,  tender,  and  carniferous  parts  of  the  human  frame, 
such  as  the  arm,  occasions  a  pain,  a  pang,  I  should  rather  say, 
of  the  intensest  acuteness,  and — and  of  the  acutest  intensity." 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Bossolton,  is  the  bone  broken  ? "  asked  Mor- 
daunt. 

By  this  time  the  patient  who  had  been  hitherto  in  that 
languor  which  extreme  pain  always  produces  at  first,  especially 
on  young  frames,  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  mark  and  reply 
to  the  kind  solicitude  of  the  last  speaker:  "  I  thank  you  sir," 
said  he  with  a  smile,  "  for  your  anxiety,  but  I  feel  that  the 
bone  is  not  broken,  the  muscles  are  a  little  hurt — that  is  all." 

"Young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton,  "you  must  permit 
me  to  say  that  they  who  have  all  their  lives  been  employed  in 
the  pursuit,  and  the  investigation,  and  the  analysis  of  certain 
studies,  are,  in  general,  better  acquainted  with  those  studies 
than  they  who  have  neither  given  them  any  importance  of  con- 
sideration ; — nor — nor  any  consideration  of  importance.  Es- 
tablishing this  as  my  hypothesis,  I  shall  now  proceed  to — " 

"Apply  immediate  remedies,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bossolton," 
interrupted  Mr.  Mordaunt,  in  that  sweet  and  honied  tone  which 
somehow  or  other  always  silenced  even  the  garrulous  practi- 
tioner. 

Driven  into  taciturnity,  Mr.  Bossolton  again  inspected  the 
arm,  and  proceeded  to  urge  the  application  of  liniments  and 
bandages,  which  he  promised  to  prepare  with  the  most  solici- 
tudinous  dispatch,  and  the  most  dispatchful  solicitude. 


30  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Your  name,  Sir  ! 

Ha  !  my  name,  you  say — my  name  ? 
'Tis  well — my  name — is — nay,  I  must  consider." — PedriUo. 

This  accident  occasioned  a  delay  of  some  days  in  the  plans 
of  the  young  gentleman,  for  whom  we  trust,  very  soon,  both 
for  our  own  convenience,  and  that  of  our  reader,  to  find  a  fit- 
ling  appellation. 

Mr.  Mordaunt,  after  seeing  every  attention  paid  to  him, 
both  surgical  and  hospitable,  took  his  departure  with  a  promise 
to  call  the  next  day ;  leaving  behind  him  a  strong  impression 
of  curiosity  and  interest  to  serve  our  hero  as  some  mental  oc- 
cupation until  his  return.  The  bonny  landlady  came  up  in  a 
new  cap,  with  blue  ribbons,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  to 
pay  a  visit  of  inquiry  to  the  handsome  patient,  who  was  re- 
moved from  the  Griffin,  No.  4,  to  the  Dragon,  No.  8 — a  room 
whose  merits  were  exactly  in  proportion  to  its  number, — viz, 
twice  as  great  as  those  of  No.  4. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Taptape,  with  a  courtesy,  "I  trust  you 
find  yourself  better." 

"At  this  moment  I  do,"  said  the  gallant  youth,  with  a  signifi- 
cant air. 

**  Hem,"  quoth  the  landlady. 

A  pause  ensued.  In  spite  of  the  compliment,  a  certain  sus- 
picion suddenly  darted  across  the  mind  of  the  hostess.  Strong 
as  are  the  prepossessions  of  the  sex,  those  of  the  profession  are 
much  stronger. 

'■  "Honest  folk,"  thought  the  landlady,  " don't  travel  with 
their  initials  only  ;  the  last 'Whitehall  Evening,'  was  full  of 
shocking  accounts  of  swindlers  and  cheats  ;  and  I  gave  nine 
pounds  odd  shillings  for  the  silver  tea-pot  John  has  brought  him 
up — as  if  the  delf  one  was  not  good  enough  for  a  foot-traveller  !  " 

Pursuing  these  ideas,  Mrs.  Taptape,  looking  bashfully  down, 
said  : 

"  By-the-by,  sir,  Mr.  Bossolton  asked  me  what  name  he 
should  put  doAvn  in  his  book  for  the  medicines ;  what  would 
you  please  me  to  say,  sir?" 

"Mr.  who  ?"  said  the  youth,  elevating  his  eyebrows. 

"  Mr.  Bossolton,  sir,  the  apothecary." 

"  Oh  !  Bossolton  !  very  odd  name  that — not  near  so  pretty 
as — dear  me,  what  a  beautiful  cap  that  is  of  yours!  "  said  the 
young  gentleman. 


THE    DISOWNED.  3 1 

"Lord,  sir,  do  you  think  so?  the  ribbon  is  pretty  enough  ; 
but — but,  as  I  was  saying,  what  name  shall  I  tell  Mr.  Bossol- 
ton  to  put  in  his  book.?"  This,  thought  Mrs.  Taptape,  is 
coming  to  the  point. 

"Well,"  said  the  youth  slowly,  and  as  if  in  a  profound  re- 
verie, "  well  Bossolton  is  certainly  the  most  singular  name  I 
ever  heard  ;  he  does  right  to  put  it  in  a  book — it  is  quite  a 
curiosity!  is  he  clever?" 

"Very,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  somewhat  sharply;  "but 
it  is  your  name,  not  his  that  he  wishes  to  put  into  his 
book." 

"  Mine  !  "  said  the  youth — who  appeared  to  have  been  seek- 
ing to  gain  time  in  order  to  answer  a  query  which  most  men 
find  requires  very  little  deliberation — "  Mine,  you  say  ;  my 
name  is  Linden — Clarence  Linden — you  understand  !  " 

"  What  a  pretty  name  !  "  thought  the  landlady's  daughter, 
who  was  listening  at  the  keyhole  ;  "but  how  cotdld  he  admire 
that  odious  cap  of  Ma's!  " 

"And,  now,  landlady,  I  wish  you  would  send  up  my  boxes ; 
and  get  me  a  newspaper,  if  you  please." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  and  she  rose  to  retire. 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  the  youth  to  himself,  "that  I  could 
have  hit  on  a  prettier  name — and  so  novel  a  one  too  ! — Clarence 
Linden — why,  if  I  were  that  pretty  girl  at  the  bar  I  could  fall 
in  love  with  the  very  words.  Shakespeare  was  quite  wrong 
when  he  said : 

"  'A  rose  by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet.' 

A  rose  by  any  name  would  not  smell  as  sweet ;  if  a  rose's 
name  was  Jeremiah  Bossolton,  for  instance,  it  would  not,  to 
my  nerves,  at  least,  smell  of  anything  but  an  apothecary's 
shop ! " 

When  Mordaunt  called  the  next  morning,  he  found  Clarence 
much  better,  and  carelessly  turning  over  various  books,  part 
of  the  contents  of  the  luggage  superscribed  C  L.  A  book  of 
whatever  description  was  among  the  few  companions  for  whom 
Mordaunthad  neither  fastidiousness  nor  reserve  ;  and  the  sym- 
pathy of  taste  between  him  and  the  sufferer  gave  rise  to  a 
conversation  less  cold  and  commonplace  than  it  might  other- 
wise have  been.  And  when  Mordaunt,  after  a  stay  of  some 
length,  rose  to  depart,  he  pressed  Linden  to  return  his  visit  be- 
fore he  left  that  part  of  the  country  ;  his  place  he  added,  was 

only  about   five  miles  distant   from  \V .     Linden,  greatly 

interested  in  his  visitor,  was  not  slow  in  accepting  the  invita- 


32  THE    DISOWNED. 

tion,  and,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Mordaunt  was 
shaking  hands  with  a  stranger  he  had  only  known  two  days. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  While  yet  a  child,  and  long  before  his  time 

He  had  perceived  the  presence  and  the  power 

Of  greatness. 

*  *  *  *  * 

But  eagerly  he  read,  and  read  again. 

***** 

Yet  still  uppermost 
Nature  was  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  felt, 
Though  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a  wasting  power 
In  all  things  that  from  her  sweet  influence 
Might  seek  to  wean  him.     Therefore  with  her  hues, 
Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms, 
He  clothed  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth." 

Wordsworth. 

Algernon  Mordaunt  was  the  last  son  of  an  old  and 
honorable  race,  which  had  centuries  back  numbered  princes  in 
its  line.  His  parents  had  had  many  children,  but  all  (save 
Algernon,  the  youngest)  died  in  their  infancy.  His  mother 
perished  in  giving  him  birth.  Constitutional  infirmity,  and  the 
care  of  mercenary  nurses,  contributed  to  render  Algernon  a 
weakly  and  delicate  child;  hence  came  a  taste  for  loneliness 
and  a  passion  for  study  ;  and  from  these  sprung,  on  the  one 
hand,  the  fastidiousness  and  reserve,  which  render  us  apparently 
unamiable,  and,  on  the  other,  tlie  loftiness  of  spirit  and  the 
kindness  of  heart,  which  are  the  best  and  earliest  gifts  of  liter- 
ature, and  more  than  counterbalance  our  deficiencies  in  the 
"minor  morals  "  due  to  society  by  their  tendency  to  increase 
our  attention  to  the  greater  ones  belonging  to  mankind.  Mr. 
Mordaunt  was  a  man  of  luxurious  habits  and  gambling  propen- 
sities ;  wedded  to  London,  he  left  the  house  of  his  ancestors  to 
moulder  into  desertion  and  decay  ;  but  to  this  home,  Algernon 
was  constantly  consigned  during  his  vacations  from  school ; 
and  its  solitude  and  cheerlessness  gave  to  a  disposition  natu- 
rally melancholy  and  thoughtful,  those  colors  which  subse- 
quent events  were  calculated  to  deepen,  not  efface. 

Truth  obliges  us  to  state,  despite  our  partiality  to  Mordaunt, 
that,  when  he  left  his  school,  after  a  residence  of  six  years,  it 
was  with  the  bitter  distinction  of  having  been  the  most  unpop- 
ular boy  in  it.     Why,  nobody   could  exactly  explain,  for  his 


THE   DISOWNED.  33 

severest  enemies  could  not  accuse  him  of  ill  nature,  cowardice, 
or  avarice,  and  these  make  the  three  capital  offences  of  a  school- 
boy ;  but  Algernon  Mordaunt  had  already  acquired  the  knowl- 
edge of  himself,  and  could  explain  the  cause,  though  with  a 
bitter  and  swelling  heart.  His  ill  health,  his  long  residence  at 
home,  his  unfriended  and  almost  orphan  situation,  his  early 
habits  of  solitude  and  reserve,  all  these,  so  calculated  to  make 
the  spirit  shrink  within  itself,  made  him,  on  his  entrance  at 
school,  if  not  unsocial,  appear  so  :  this  was  the  primary  reason 
of  his  unpopularity  ;  the  second  was  that  he  perceived,  for  he 
was  sensitive  (and  consequently  acute)  to  the  extreme,  the  mis- 
fortune of  his  manner,  and  in  his  wish  to  rectify  it,  it  became 
doubly  unprepossessing  ;  to  reserve,  it  now  added  embarrass- 
ment, to  coldness  gloom  ;  and  the  pain  he  felt  in  addressing  or 
being  addressed  by  another,  was  naturally  and  necessarily  re- 
ciprocal, for  the  effects  of  sympathy  are  nowhere  so  wonderful 
yet  so  invisible,  as  in  the  manners. 

By  degrees  he  shunned  the  intercourse  which  had  for  him 
nothing  but  distress,  and  his  volatile  acquaintances  were 
perhaps  the  first  to  set  him  the  example.  Often  in  his 
solitary  walks  he  stopped  afar  off  to  gaze  upon  the  sports, 
which  none  ever  solicited  him  to  share ;  and  as  the  shout  of 
laughter  and  of  happy  hearts  came,  peal  after  peal,  upon  his 
ear,  he  turned  enviously,  yet  not  malignantly,  away,  with  tears 
which  not  all  his  pride  could  curb,  and  muttered  to  himself, 
"  And  these,  these  hate  me  !  " 

There  are  two  feelings  common  to  all  high  or  affectionate 
natures,  that  of  extreme  susceptibility  to  opinion,  and  that  of 
extreme  bitterness  at  its  injustice.  These  feelings  were  Mor- 
daunt's  ;  but  the  keen  edge  which  one  blow  injures,  the  repeti- 
tion blunts  :  and  by  little  and  little,  Algernon  became  not  only 
accustomed,  but,  as  he  persuaded  himself,  indifferent,  to  his 
want  of  popularity  ;  his  step  grew  more  lofty,  and  his  address 
more  collected,  and  that  which  was  once  diffidence  gradually 
hardened  into  pride. 

His  residence  at  the  university  was  neither  without  honor  nor 
profit.  A  college  life  was  then,  as  now,  either  the  most  retired 
or  the  most  social  of  all  others  ;  we  need  scarcely  say  which  it 
was  to  Mordaunt,  but  his  was  the  age  when  solitude  is  desir- 
able, and  when  the  closet  forms  the  mind  better  than  the  world. 
Driven  upon  itself,  his  intellect  became  inquiring,  and  its  re- 
sources profound  ;  admitted  to  their  inmost  recesses,  he  revelled 
among  the  treasures  of  ancient  lore,  and  in  his  dreams  of  the 
Nymph  and  Naiad,  or  his  researches  after  truth  in  the  deep 


34  THE    DISOWNED. 

wells  of  the  Stagyrite  or  the  golden  fountains  of  Plato,  he  forgot 
the  loneliness  of  his  lot,  and  exhausted  the  hoarded  enthusiasm 
of  his  soul. 

But  his  mind,  rather  thoughtful  than  imaginative,  found  no 
idol  like  "  Divine  Philosophy."  It  delighted  to  plunge  itself  into 
the  mazes  of  metaphysical  investigation — to  trace  the  springs 
of  the  intellect — to  connect  the  arcana  of  the  universe — to 
descend  into  the  darkest  caverns,  or  to  wind  through  the 
minutest  mysteries  of  nature,  and  rise,  step  by  step,  to  that  ardu- 
ous elevation  on  which  Thought  stands  dizzy  and  confused, 
looking  beneath  upon  a  clouded  earth,  and  above,  upon  an  un- 
fathomable heaven. 

Rarely  wandering  from  his  chamber,  known  personally  to  few, 
and  intimately  by  none,  Algernon  yet  left  behind  him  at  the 
university  the  most  remarkable  reputation  of  his  day.  He  had 
obtained  some  of  the  highest  of  academical  honors,  and  by  that 
proverbial  process  of  vulgar  minds  which  ever  frames  the  mag- 
nificent from  the  unknown, — the  seclusion  in  which  he  lived, 
and  the  recondite  nature  of  his  favorite  pursuits,  attached  to 
his  name  a  still  greater  celebrity  and  interest  than  all  the  ortho- 
dox and  regular  dignities  he  had  acquired.  There  are  few  men 
who  do  not  console  themselves  for  not  being  generally  loved, 
if  they  can  reasonably  hope  that  they  are  generally  esteemed. 
Mordaunt  had  now  grown  reconciled  to  himself  and  to  his  kind. 
He  had  opened  to  his  interest  a  world  in  his  own  breast,  and 
it  consoled  him  for  his  mortification  in  the  world  without. 
But,  better  than  this,  his  habits  as  well  as  studies  had  strength- 
ened the  principles  and  confirmed  the  nobility  of  his  mind. 
He  was  not,  it  is  true,  more  kind,  more  benevolent,  more  upright 
than  before  ;  but  those  virtues  now  emanated  from  principle — 
not  emotion  :  and  principle  to  the  mind  is  what  a  free  consti- 
tution is  to  a  people  :  without  that  principle,  or  that  free  con- 
stitution, the  one  may  be  for  the  moment  as  good — the  other 
as  happy,  but  we  cannot  tell  how  long  the  goodness  and  the 
happiaess  will  continue. 

On  leaving  the  university,  his  father  sent  for  him  to  London. 
He  stayed  there  a  short  time,  and  mingled  partially  in  its  festiv- 
ities ;  but  the  pleasures  of  English  dissipation  have  for  a  cen- 
tury been  the  same,  heartless  without  gayety,  and  dull  without 
refinement.  Nor  could  Mordaunt,  the  most  fastidious  yet 
warm-hearted  of  human  beings,  reconcile  either  his  tastes  or 
his  affections  to  the  cold  insipidities  of  patrician  society.  His 
father's  habits  and  evident  distresses  deepened  his  disgust  to 
bis  situation  ;  for  the  habits  were  incurable,  and  the  distresses 


THE   DISOWNED.  35 

increasing  •,  and  nothing  but  a  circumstance,  which  Mordaunt 
did  not  then  understand,  prevented  the  final  sale  of  an  estate, 
already  little  better  than  a  pompous  incumbrance. 

It  was  therefore  with  the  half-painful,  half-pleasurable  sen- 
sation, with  which  we  avoid  contemplating  a  ruin  we  cannot  pre- 
vent, that  Mordaunt  set  out  upon  that  continental  tour  deemed 
then  so  necessary  a  part  of  education.  His  father,  on  taking 
leave  of  him,  seemed  deeply  affected.  "  Go  my  son,"  said  he, 
"  may  God  bless  you,  and  not  punish  me  too  severely.  I  have 
wronged  you  deeply,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  your 
face." 

To  these  words  Algernon  attached  a  general,  but  they  cloaked 
a  peculiar,  meaning  :  in  three  years  he  returned  to  England — 
his  father  had  been  dead  some  months,  and  the  signification  of 
his  parting  address  was  already  deciphered — but  of  this  here- 
after. 

In  his  travels,  Mordaunt  encountered  an  Englishman,  whose 
name  I  will  not  yet  mention  ;  a  person  of  great  reputed  wealth 
— a  merchant,  yet  a  man  of  pleasure — a  voluptuary  in  life,  yet 
a  saint  in  reputation — or,  to  abstain  from  the  antithetical  anal- 
ysis of  a  character,  which  will  not  be  corporeally  presented 
to  the  reader,  till  our  tale  is  considerably  advanced — one  who 
drew  from  nature  a  singular  combination  of  shrewd,  but  false 
conclusions,  and  a  peculiar  philosophy  destined  hereafter  to 
contrast  the  colors,  and  prove  the  practical  utility,  of  that  which 
was  esrpoused  by  Mordaunt. 

There  can  be  no  education  in  which  the  lessons  of  the  world 
do  not  form  a  share.  Experience,  in  expanding  Algernon's 
powers,  had  ripened  his  virtues.  Nor  had  the  years  which  had 
converted  knowledge  into  wisdorti  failed  in  imparting  polish  to 
refinement.  His  person  had  acquired  a  greater  grace,  and  his 
manners  an  easier  dignity  than  before.  His  noble  and  gener- 
ous mind  had  worked  its  impress  upon  his  features  and  his 
mien  ;  and  those  who  could  overcome  the  first  coldness  and 
shrinking  hauteur  of  his  address  found  it  required  no  minute 
examination  to  discover  the  real  expression  of  the  eloquent 
eye  and  the  kindling  lip. 

He  had  not  been  long  returned,  before  he  found  two  enemies 
to  his  tranquillity — the  one  was  love,  the  other  appeared  in  the 
more  formidable  guise  of  a  claimant  to  his  estate.  Before  Al- 
gernon was  aware  of  the  nature  of  the  latter,  he  went  to  con- 
sult with  his  lawyer. 

"  If  the  claim  be  just,  I  shall  not,  of  course,  proceed  to 
law,"  said  Mordaunt. 


36  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  But  without  the  estate,  sir,  you  have  nothing !  " 

"  True,"  said  Algernon,  calmly. 

But  the  claim  was  not  just,  and  to  law  he  went. 

In  this  law-suit,  however,  he  had  one  assistant,  in  an  old  rela* 
tion,  who  had  seen,  indeed,  but  very  little  of  him,  but  who  com- 
passionated his  circumstances,  and  above  all  hated  his  oppo- 
nent. This  relation  was  rich  and  childless  ;  and  there  were 
not  wanting  those  who  predicted  that  his  money  would  ulti- 
mately discharge  the  mortgages,  and  repair  the  house,  of 
the  young  representative  of  the  Mordaunt  honors.  But  the 
old  kinsman  was  obstinate — self-willed — and  under  the  abso- 
lute dominion  of  patrician  pride  ;  and  it  was  by  no  means  im- 
probable that  the  independence  of  Mordaunt's  character  would 
soon  create  a  disunion  between  them,  by  clashing  against  the 
peculiarities  of    his  relation's  temper. 

It  was  a  clear  and  sunny  morning  when  Linden,  tolerably 
recovered  of  his  hurt,  set  out  upon  a  sober  and  aged  pony 
which  after  some  natural  pangs  of  shame,  he  had  hired  of  his 
landlord,  to  Mordaunt  Court. 

Mordaunt's  house  was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  wild  and  ex- 
tensive park,  surrounded  with  woods,  and  interspersed  with 
trees  of  the  stateliest  growth,  now  scattered  into  irregular 
groups,  now  marshalled  into  sweeping  avenues  ;  while  ever  and 
anon,  Linden  caught  glimpses  of  a  rapid  and  brawling  rivulet, 
which,  in  many  a  slight  but  sounding  waterfall,  gave  a  music 
strange  and  spirit-like  to  the  thick  copses  and  forest  glades 
through  which  it  went  exulting  on  its  way.  The  deer  lay  half 
concealed  by  the  fern  among  which  they  crouched,  turning 
their  stately  crests  towards  the  stranger,  but  not  stirring  from 
their  rest  ;  while  from  the  Summit  of  beeches  which  would 
have  shamed  the  pavilion  of  Tityrus,  the  rooks^ — those  monks 
of  the  feathered  people — were  loud  in  their  confused,  but  not 
displeasing,  confabulations. 

As  Linden  approached  the  house,  he  was  struck  with  the 
melancholy  air  of  desolation  which  spread  over  and  around 
it  :  fragments  of  stone,  above  which  clomb  the  rank  weed, 
insolently  proclaiming  the  triumph  of  nature's  meanest  off- 
spring over  the  wrecks  of  art  ;  a  moat  dried  up,  a  railing  once 
of  massy  gilding,  intended  to  fence  a  lofty  terrace  on  the  right 
from  the  incursions  of  the  deer,  but  which,  shattered  and  de« 
cayed,  now  seemed  to  ask,  with  the  satirist  : 

"  To  what  end  did  our  lavish  ancestors, 
Erect  of  old  these  stalely  piles  of  ours?" 


THE   DISOWNED.  37 

—a  chapel  on  the  left,  perfectly  in  ruins, — all  appeared  strik- 
ingly to  denote  that  time  had  outstript  fortune,  and  that  the 
years,  which  alike  hallow  and  destroy,  had  broken  the  conse- 
quence, in  deepening  the  antiquity,  of  the  House  of  Mordaunt. 

The  building  itself  agreed  but  too  well  with  the  tokens  of 
decay  around  it ;  most  of  the  windows  were  shut  up,  and  the 
shutters  of  dark  oak,  richly  gilt,  contrasted  forcibly  with  the 
shatttered  panes  and  mouldered  framing  of  the  glass.  It  was 
a  house  of  irregular  architecture.  Originally  built  in  the  fif- 
teenth century,  it  had  received  its  last  improvement,  with  the 
most  lavish  expense,  during  the  reign  of  Anne  ;  and  it  united 
the  Gallic  magnificence  of  the  latter  period  with  the  strength 
and  grandeur  of  the  former  ;  it  was  in  a  great  part  overgrown 
with  ivy,  and  where  that  insidious  ornament  had  not  reached,  the 
signs  of  decay,  and  even  ruin,  were  fully  visible.  The  sun  it- 
self, bright  and  cheering  as  it  shone  over  nature,  making  the 
green  sod  glow  like  emeralds,  and  the  rivulet  flash  in  its  beam, 
like  one  of  those  streams  of  real  light  imagined  by  Swedenborg 
in  his  visions  of  heaven,  and  clothing  tree  and  fell,  brake  and 
hillock,  with  the  lavish  hues  of  infant  summer, — the  sun  it- 
self only  made  more  desolate,  because  more  conspicuous,  the 
venerable  fabric  which  the  youthful  traveller  frequently  paused 
more  accurately  to  survey,  and  its  laughing  and  sportive  beams 
playing  over  chink  and  crevice  seemed  almost  as  insolent  and 
untimeous  as  the  mirth  of  the  young,  mocking  the  silent  grief 
of  some  gray-headed  and  solitary  mourner. 

Clarence  had  now  reached  the  porch,  and  the  sound  of  the 
shrill  bell  he  touched  rung  with  a  strange  note  throughout  the 
general  stillness  of  the  place.  A  single  servant  appeared,  and 
ushered  Clarence  through  a  screen  hall,  hung  round  with  relics 
of  armor,  and  ornamented  on  the  side  opposite  the  music 
gallery  with  a  solitary  picture  of  gigantic  size,  exhibiting  the 
full  length  of  the  gaunt  person  and  sable  steed  of  that  Sir 
Piers  de  Mordaunt  who  had  so  signalized  himself  in  the  field 
in  which  Henry  of  Richmond  changed  his  coronet  for  a  crown. 
Through  this  hall  Clarence  was  led  to  a  small  chamber  clothed 
with  uncouth  and  tattered  arras,  in  which,  seemingly  immersed 
in  papers,  he  found  the  owner  of  the  domain. 

"Your  studies,"  said  Linden,  after  the  salutations  of  the 
day,  "seem  to  harmonize  with  the  venerable  antiquity  of  your 
home";  and  he  pointed  to  the  crabbed  characters  and  faded 
ink  of  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"So  they  ought,"  answered  Mordaunt,  with  a  faint  smile; 
"for  they  are  called  from  their  quiet  archives  in  order  to  sup 


38  THE   DISOWNED. 

port  my  struggle  for  that  home.  But  I  fear  the  struggle  is  in 
vain,  and  that  the  quibbles  of  law  will  transfer  into  other  hands  a 
possession  I  am  foolish  enough  to  value  the  more  from  my  ina- 
bility to  maintain  it." 

Something  of  this  Clarence  had  before  learnt  from  the  com- 
municative gossip  of  his  landlady  ;  and  less  desirous  of  satis- 
fying his  curiosity  than  to  lead  the  conversation  from  a  topic 
which  he  felt  must  be  so  unwelcome  to  Mordaunt,  he  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  the  state  apartments  of  the  house.  With  some- 
thing of  shame  at  the  neglect  they  had  necessarily  experienced, 
and  something  of  pride  at  the  splendor  which  no  neglect  could 
efface,  Mordaunt  yielded  to  the  request,  and  led  the  way  up  a 
staircase  of  black  oak,  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  which  were 
covered  with  frescos  of  Italian  art,  to  a  suite  of  apartments  in 
whicli  time  and  dust  seemed  the  only  tenants.  Lingeringlydid 
Clarence  gaze  upon  the  rich  velvet,  the  costly  mirrors,  the 
motley  paintings  of  a  hundred  ancestors,  and  the  antique  cabi- 
nets, containing,  among  the  most  hoarded  relics  of  the  Mordaunt 
race,  curiosities  which  the  hereditary  enthusiasm  of  a  line 
of  cavaliers  had  treasured  as  the  most  sacred  of  heirlooms, 
and  which  even  to  the  philosophical  mind  of  Mordaunt  pos- 
sessed a  value  he  did  not  seek  too  minutely  to  analyze.  Here 
was  the  goblet  from  which  the  first  prince  of  Tudor  had  drunk 
after  the  field  of  Bosworth.  Here  the  ring  with  which  the 
chivalrous  Francis  the  First  had  rewarded  a  signal  feat  of  that 
famous  Robert  de  Mordaunt,  who,  as  a  poor  but  adventurous 
cadet  of  the  house,  had  brought  to  the  "first  gentleman  of 
France  "  the  assistance  of  his  sword.  Here  was  the  glove 
which  Sir  Walter  had  received  from  the  royal  hand  of  Elizabeth, 
and  worn  in  the  lists  upon  a  crest  which  the  lance  of  no  antagonist 
in  that  knightly  court  could  abase.  And  here  more  sacred 
than  all,  because  connected  with  the  memory  of  misfortune, 
was  a  small  box  of  silver  which  the  last  king  of  a  fated  line  had 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  gray-headed  descendant  of  that  Sir 
Walter  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  saying,  "  Keep  this.  Sir 
Everard  Mordaunt,  for  the  sake  of  one  who  has  purchased  the 
luxury  of  gratitude  at  the  price  of  a  throne  !  " 

As  Clarence  glanced  from  these  relics  to  the  figure  of  Mor- 
daunt, who  stood  at  a  little  distance  leaning  against  the  window 
with  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  with  eyes  abstractedly 
wandering  over  the  noble  woods  and  extended  park,  which 
spread  below,  he  could  not  but  feel  that  if  birth  had  indeed 
the  power  of  setting  its  seal  upon  the  form,  it  was  never  more 
conspicuous  than   in   the  broad  front  and  lofty  air  of  the  last 


THE    DISOWNED.  39 

descendant  of  the  race  by  whose  memorials  he  was  surrounded. 
Touched  by  the  fallen  fortunes  of  Mordaunt,  and  interested 
by  the  uncertainty  which  the  chances  of  law  threw  over  his 
future  fate,  Clarence  could  not  resist  exclaiming  with. some 
warmth  and  abruptness : 

"And  by  what  subterfuge  or  cavil  does  the  present  claimant 
of  these  estates  hope  to  dislodge  their  rightful  possessor?" 

"  Why," answered  Mordaunt,  "it  is  a  long  story  in  detail,  but 
briefly  told  in  epitome.  My  father  was  a  man  whose  habits 
greatly  exceeded  his  fortune,  and  a  few  months  after  his  death 
Mr.  Vavasour,  a  distant  relation,  produced  a  paper  by  which  it 
appeared  that  my  father  had,  for  a  certain  sum  of  ready  money, 
disposed  of  his  estates  to  this  Mr.  Vavasour,  upon  condition 
that  they  should  not  be  claimed,  nor  the  treaty  divulged,  till 
after  his  death  ;  the  reason  for  this  proviso  seems  to  have  been 
the  shame  my  father  felt  for  his  exchange,  and  his  fear  of  the 
censures  of  that  world  to  which  he  was  always  devoted." 

"  But  how  unjust  to  you  !  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Not  so  much  so  as  it  seems,"  said  Mordaunt  deprecatingly  ; 
**  for  I  was  then  but  a  sickly  boy,  and  according  to  the  phy- 
sicians, and  I  sincerely  believe  according  also  to  my  poor 
father's  belief,  almost  certain  of  a  premature  death.  In  that 
case  Vavasour  would  have  been  the  nearest  heir  ;  and  this  ex- 
pectancy, by  the  by,  joined  to  the  mortgages  on  the  property, 
made  the  sum  given  ridiculously  disproportioned  to  the  value 
of  the  estate.  I  must  confess  that  the  news  came  upon  me 
like  a  thunderbolt.  I  should  have  yielded  up  possession  im- 
mediately, but  was  informed  by  my  lawyers  that  my  father  had 
no  legal  right  to  dispose  of  the  property  ;  the  discussion  of 
that  right  forms  the  ground  of  the  present  lawsuit.  But," 
continued  Mordaunt  proudly,  yet  mournfully,  "I  am  prepared 
for  the  worst;  if,  indeed,  I  should  call  that  the  worst  which 
can  affect  neither  intellect,  nor  health,  nor  character,  nor  con- 
science." 

Clarence  was  silent,  and  Mordaunt,  after  a  brief  pause,  once 
more  resumed  his  guidance.  Their  tour  ended  in  a  large 
library  filled  with  books,  and  this,  Mordaunt  informed  his 
guest  was  his  chosen  sitting-room. 

An  old  carved  table  was  covered  with  works  which  for  the 
most  part  possessed  for  the  young  mind  of  Clarence,  more  ac- 
customed to  imagine  than  reflect,  but  a  very  feeble  attraction  ; 
on  looking  over  them  he,  however,  found  half  hid  by  a  huge 
folio  of  Hobbes,  and  anotlier  of  Locke,  a  volume  of  Milton's 
poems  ;  this  paved  the  way  to  a  conversation,  in   which  both 


40  THE   DISOWNED. 

had  an  equal  interest,  for  both  were  enthusiastic  in  the  char- 
acter and  genius  of  that  wonderful  man  for  whom  "  the  divine 
and  solemn  coutnenance  of  Freedom  "  was  dearer  than  the  light 
of  day,  and  whose  solitary  spell,  accomplishing  what  the  whole 
family  of  earth  once  vainly  began  upon  tlie  plain  of  Shinar, 
has  built  of  materials  more  imperishable  than  "  slime  and  brick," 
*'  a  city  and  a  tower  whose  summit  has  reached  to  heaven." 

It  was  with  mutual  satisfaction  that  Mordaunt  and  his  guest 
continued  their  commune,  till  the  hour  of  dinner  was  announced 
to  them  by  a  bell,  which  formerly  intended  as  an  alarum,  now 
served  the  peaceful  purpose  of  a  more  agreeable  summons. 

The  same  servant  who  had  admitted  Clarence  ushered  them 
through  the  great  hall  into  the  dining-room,  and  was  their 
solitary  attendant  during  their  repast. 

The  temper  of  Mordaunt  was  essentially  grave  and  earnest, 
and  his  conversation  almost  invariably  took  the  tone  of  his 
mind ;  this  made  their  conference  turn  upon  less  minute  and 
commonplace  topics  than  one  between  such  new  acquaintances, 
especially  of  different  ages,  usually  does. 

"You  will  positively  go  to  London  to-morrow,  then  ? "  said 
Mordaunt,  as  the  servant,  removing  the  appurtenances  of  din- 
ner, left  them  alone. 

"  Positively,"  answered  Clarence.  "I  go  there  to  carve  my 
own  fortunes,  and,  to  say  truth,  I  am  impatient  to  begin." 

Mordaunt  looked  earnestly  at  the  frank  face  of  the  speaker, 
and  wondered  that  one  so  young,  so  well  educated,  and,  from 
his  air  and  manner,  evidently  of  gentle  blood,  should  appear 
so  utterly  thrown  upon  his  own  resources. 

"I  wish  you  success,"  said  he,  after  a  pause;  "and  it  is  a 
noble  part  of  the  organization  of  this  world,  that  by  increasing 
those  riches  which  are  beyond  fortune,  we  do  in  general  take 
the  surest  method  of  obtaining  those  which  are  in  its  reach." 

Clarence  looked  inquiringly  at  Mordaunt,  who  perceiving  it, 
continued,  "  I  see  that  I  should  explain  myself  further.  I  will 
do  so  by  using  the  thoughts  of  a  mind  not  the  least  beautiful 
and  accomplished  which  this  country  has  produced.  *  Of  all 
which  belongs  to  us,'  said  Bolingbroke,  *  the  least  valuable  parts 
can  alone  fall  under  the  will  of  others.  Whatever  is  testis 
safest;  lies  out  of  the  reach  of  human  power ;  can  neither  be 
given  nor  taken  away.  Such  is  this  great  and  beautiful  work 
of  nature,  the  world.  Such  is  the  mind  of  man,  which  con- 
templates and  admires  the  world  whereof  it  makes  the  noblest 
part.  These  are  inseparably  ours,  and  as  long  as  we  remain  in 
one  we  shall  enjoy  the  other.' " 


THE   DISOWNED.  4^ 

"Beautiful,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Clarence,  with  the  enthu- 
siasm of  a  young  and  pure  heart,  to  which  every  loftier  senti- 
ment is  always  beautiful. 

"And  true  as  beautiful !"  said  Mordaunt.  "Nor  is  this  all, 
for  the  mind  can  even  dispense  with  that  world,  '  of  which  it 
forms  a  part,'  if  we  can  create  within  it  a  world  still  more 
inaccessible  to  chance.  But  (and  I  now  return  to  and  explain 
my  former  observation)  the  means  by  which  we  can  effect  this 
peculiar  world  can  be  rendered  equally  subservient  to  our 
advancement  and  prosperity  in  that  which  we  share  in  common 
with  our  race  ;  for  the  riches,  which  by  the  aid  of  wisdom  we 
heap  up  in  the  storehouses  of  the  mind,  are,  though  not  the 
only,  the  most  customary  coin  by  which  external  prosperity  is 
bought.  So  that  the  philosophy,  which  can  alone  give  independ- 
ence to  ourselves,  becomes,  under  the  name  of  honesty,  the 
best  policy  in  commerce  with  our  kind." 

In  conversation  of  this  nature,  which  the  sincerity  and  lofty 
enthusiasm  of  Mordaunt  rendered  interesting  to  Clarence, 
despite  the  distaste  to  the  serious  so  ordinary  to  youth,  the 
hours  passed  on,  till  the  increasing  evening  warned  Linden  to 
depart. 

"Adieu!  "said  he  to  Mordaunt.  "I  know  not  when  we 
shall  meet  again,  but  if  we  ever  do,  I  will  make  it  my  boast, 
whether  in  prosperity  or  misfortune,  not  to  have  forgotten  the 
pleasure  I  have  this  day  enjoyed  ! " 

Returning  his  guest's  farewell  with  a  warmth  unusual  to  his 
manner,  Mordaunt  followed  him  to  the  door,  and  saw  him 
depart. 

Fate  ordained  that  they  should  pursue,  in  very  different 
paths,  their  several  destinies  ;  nor  did  it  afford  them  an  oppor- 
tunity of  meeting  again,  till  years  and  events  had  severely  tried 
the  virtue  of  one,  and  materially  altered  the  prospects  of  the 
other. 

The  next  morning  Clarence  Linden  was  on  his  road  to 
London,  » 


CHAPTER  VIL 

"  Upon  my  word,"  cries  Jones,  "  thou  art  a  very  odd  fellow,  and  I  like 
thy  humor  extremely." — Fielding. 

The  rumbling  and  jolting  vehicle,  which  conveyed  Clarence 
to  the  metropolis,  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  tavern  in  Holborn. 
Linden  was  ushered  into  a  close  coffee-room,  and  presented 


42  THE    DISOWNED. 

with  a  bill  of  fare.  While  he  was  deliberating  between  the 
respective  merits  of  mutton  chops  and  beef-steaks,  a  man  with 
a  brown  coat,  brown  breeches,  and  a  brown  wig  walked  into 
the  room  ;  he  cast  a  curious  glance  at  Clarence,  and  then  turned 
to  the  waiter. 

"  A  pair  of  slippers  !  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  and  the  waiter  disappeared. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  brown  gentleman  to  Clarence,  **  I  sup- 
pose, sir,  you  are  the  gentleman  just  come  to  town  ?" 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  said  Clarence. 

"Very  well,  very  well,  indeed,"  resumed  the  stranger,  mus- 
ingly. "I  took  the  liberty  of  looking  at  your  boxes  in  the 
passage  ;  I  knew  a  lady,  sir,  a  relation  of  yours,  I  think." 

"Sir  !  "  exclaimed  Linden,  coloring  violently. 

"At  least  I  suppose,  for  her  name  was  just  the  same  as  yours, 
only,  at  least,  one  letter  difference  between  them  :  yours  is 
Linden,  I  see,  sir ;  hers  was  Minden.  Am  I  right  in  my  con- 
jecture, that  you  are  related  to  her?" 

"  Sir,"  answered  Clarence  gravely,  "  notwithstanding  the 
similarity  of  our  names,  we  are  not  related." 

"Very  extraordinary,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"  Very,"  repeated  Linden, 

"I  had  the  honor,  sir,"  said  the  brown  gentleman,  "to  make 
Mrs.  Minden  many  presents  of  value,  and  I  should  have  been 
very  happy  to  have  obliged  you  in  the  same  manner,  had  you 
been  any  way  connected  with  that  worthy  gentlewoman." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Linden,  "you  are  very  kind ;  and 
since  such  were  your  intentions,  I  believe  I  w?/5-/ have  been 
connected  with  Mrs.  Minden.  At  all  events,  as  you  justly 
observe,  there  is  only  the  difference  of  a  letter  between  our 
names ;  a  discrepancy  too  slight,  I  am  sure,  to  alter  your 
benevolent  intentions." 

Here  the  waiter  returned  with  the  slippers. 

The  stranger  slowly  unbuttoned  his  gaiters.  "  Sir,"  said  he 
to  Linden,  "we  will  renew  our  conversation  presently."  \ 

No  sooner  had  the  generous  friend  of  Mrs.  Minden  de- 
posited his  feet  into  their  easy  tenements,  than  he  quitted 
the  room. 

"  Pray,"  said  Linden  to  the  waiter,  when  he  had  ordered  his 
simple  repast,  "who  is  that  gentleman  in  brown  ?" 

"  J/>'.  Brown,"  replied  the  waiter. 

"And  who,  or  what  is  Mr.  Brown?"  asked  our  hero. 

Before  the  waiter  could  reply,  Mr.  Brown  returned,  with  a 
Jarge  bandbox,  carefully   enveloped  in  a  blue  handkerchief. 


THE   DISOWNED.  43 

"You  come  from ,  sir?"  said   Mr.  Brown,  quietly  seating- 

himself  at  the  same  table  as  Linden. 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not." 

"  From ,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  !— from  W- 


W ? — ay — well,  I  knew  a  lady  with  a  name  very  like 

W (the  late  Lady  Waddilove),  extremely  well.     I  made  her 

some  valuable  presents — her  ladyship  was  very  sensible  of  it." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  sir,"  replied  Clarence  ;  "such  instances  of 
general  beneficence  rarely  occur  ! " 

"I  have  some  magnificent  relics  of  her  ladyship  in  this  box," 
returned  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Really  !  then  she  was  no  less  generous  than  yourself,  I 
presume?" 

"Yes,  her  ladyship  was  remarkably  generous.  About  a  week 
before  she  died  (the  late  Lady  Waddilove  was  quite  sensible  of 
her  danger),  she  called  me  to  her— ^'  Brown,'  said  she,  'you  are 
a  good  creature  ;  I  have  had  my  most  valuable  things  from  you. 
I  am  not  ungrateful  ;  I  will  leave  you — tny  maid !  She  is  as 
clever  as  you  are,  and  as  good.'  I  took  the  hint,  sir,  and  mar- 
ried. It  was  an  excellent  bargain.  My  wife  is  a  charming 
woman  ;  she  entirely  fitted  up  Mrs.  Minden's  wardrobe,  and  I 
furnished  the  house.     Mrs.  Minden  was  greatly  indebted  to  us." 

"  Heaven  help  me  !  "  thought  Clarence,  "  the  man  is  cer- 
tainly mad." 

The  waiter  entered  with  the  dinner  ;,  and  Mr.  Brown,  who 
seemed  to  have  a  delicate  aversion  to  any  conversation  in  the 
presence  of  the  Ganymede  of  the  Holborn  tavern,  immediately 
ceased  his  communications  ;  meanwhile,  Clarence  took  the  op- 
portunity to  survey  him  more  minutely  than  he  had  hitherto 
done. 

His  new  acquaintance  was  in  age  about  forty-eight ;  in  stature, 
rather  under  the  middle  height ;  and  thin,  dried,  withered,  yet 
muscular  withal,  like  a  man  who,  in  stinting  his  stomach  for  the 
sake  of  economy,  does  not  the  less  enjoy  the  power  of  undergoing 
any  fatigue  or  exertion  that  an  object  of  adequate  importance 
may  demand.  We  have  said  already  that  he  was  attired,  like 
twilight,  "  in  a  suit  of  sober  brown  ";  and  there  was  a  formality, 
a  precision,  and  a  cat-like  sort  of  cleanliness  in  his  garb,  which 
savored  strongly  of  the  respectable  coxcombry  of  the  counting- 
house.  His  face  was  lean,  it  is  true,  but  not  emaciated  ;  and 
his  complexion,  sallow  and  adust,  harmonized  well  with  the 
colors  of  his  clothing.  An  eye  of  the  darkest  hazel,  sharp, 
shrewd,  and  flashing  at  times,  especially  at  the  mention  of  the 


44  THE    DISOWNED. 

euphonious  name  of  Lady  Waddilove — a  name  frequently  upofi 
the  lips  of  the  inheritor  of  her  Abigail — with  a  fire  that  might 
be  called  brilliant,  was  of  that  modest  species  which  can  seldom 
encounter  the  straightforward  glance  of  another ;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  seemed  restlessly  uneasy  in  any  settled  place,  and  wan- 
dered from  ceiling  to  floor,  and  corner  to  corner,  with  an  in- 
quisitive though  apparently  careless  glance,  as  if  seeking  for 
something  to  admire  or  haply  to  appropriate  ;  it  also  seemed  to 
be  the  special  care  of  Mr.  Brown  to  veil,  as  far  as  he  was  able, 
the  vivacity  of  his  looks  beneath  an  expression  of  open  and  un- 
heeding good  nature,  an  expression  strangely  enough  contrast- 
ing with  the  closeness  and  sagacity  which  nature  had  indelibly 
stamped  upon  features  pointed,  aquiline,  and  impressed  with  a 
strong  mixture  of  the  Judaical  physiognomy.  The  manner  and 
bearing  of  this  gentleman  partook  of  the  same  undecided  char- 
acter as  his  countenance  ;  they  seemed  to  be  struggling  between 
civility  and  importance  ;  a  real  eagerness  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  person  he  addressed,  and  an  assumed  recklessness 
of  the  advantages  which  that  acquaintance  could  bestow ;  it 
was  like  the  behavior  of  a  man  who  is  desirous  of  having  the 
best  possible  motives  imputed  to  him,  but  is  fearful  lest  that 
desire  should  not  be  utterly  fulfilled.  At  the  first  glance  you 
would  have  pledged  yourself  for  his  respectability  ;  at  the  sec- 
ond, you  would  have  half  suspected  him  to  be  a  rogue  ;  and, 
after  you  had  been  half  an  hour  in  his  company,  you  would 
confess  yourself  in  the  obscurest  doubt  which  w  as  the  better 
guess,  the  first  or  the  last. 

"Waiter  !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking  enviously  at  the 
viands  upon  which  Linden,  having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  was 
now,  with  all  the  appetite  of  youth,  regaling  himself. 
"  Waiter ! " 

"  Yes,  sir  !  " 

"  Bring  me  a  sandwich — and — and,  waiter,  see  that  I  have 
plenty  of — plenty  of " 

"  What,  sir  ?  " 

"  Plenty  of  mustard,  waiter." 

"  Mustard  "  (and  here  Mr.  Brown  addressed  himself  to  Clar- 
ence) "  is  a  very  wonderful  assistance  to  the  digestion.  By  the 
by,  sir,  if  you  want  any  curiously  fine  mustard,  I  can  procure 
you  some  pots  quite  capital — a  great  favor,  though — they  were 
smuggled  from  France,  especially  for  the  use  of  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove." 

"Thank you,"  said  Linden  dryly  ;  "1  shall  be  very  happy  to 
accept  anything  you  may  wish  to  offer  me  " 


THE    DISOWNED.  45 

Mr.  Brown  took  a  pocket-book  from  his  pouch.  "  Six  pots 
of  mustard,  sir — shall  I  say  six  ?  " 

"As  many  as  you  please,"  replied  Clarence  ;  and  Mr.  Brown 
wrote  down  "Six  pots  of  French  mustard." 

"You  are  a  very  young  gentleman,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown, 
**  probably  intended  for  some  profession — I  don't  mean  to  be 
impertinent,  but  if  I  can  be  of  any  assistance — " 

"You  can,  sir,"  replied  Linden,  "and  immediately — have  the 
kindness  to  ring  the  bell." 

Mr.  Brown,  with  a  grave  smile,  did  as  he  was  desired  ;  the 
waiter  re-entered,  and  receiving  a  whispered  order  from  Clar- 
ence, again  disappeared. 

"What  profession  did  you  say,  sir?"  renewed  Mr.  Brown 
artfully. 

"  None  !  "  replied  Linden. 

"  Oh,  very  well — very  well  indeed.  Then  as  an  idle,  inde- 
pendent gentleman,  you  will  of  course  be  a  bit  of  a  beau — want 
some  shirts,  possibly — fine  cravats,  too — gentlemen  wear  a  par- 
ticular pattern  now — gloves,  gold,  or  shall  I  say  ^r// chain,  watch 
and  seals,  a  ring  or  two,  and  a  snuff-box  ?  " 

"  Sir,  you  are  vastly  obliging,"  said  Clarence,  in  undisguised 
surprise. 

"  Not  at  all,  I  would  do  any  thing  for  a  relation  of  Mrs,  Min- 
den."  The  waiter  re-entered  ;  " Sir,"  said  he  to  Linden,  "your 
room  is  quite  ready." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Clarence,  rising,  "Mr.  Brown, 
I  have  the  honor  of  wishing  you  a  good  evening," 

"  Stay,  sir — stay  ;  you  have  not  looked  into  these  things  be* 
longing  to  the  late  Lady  Waddilove." 

"Another  time,"  said  Clarence,  hastily. 

"  To-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock,"  muttered  Mr.  Brown. 

"  I  am  exceedingly  glad  I  have  got  rid  of  that  fellow,"  said 
Linden  to  himself,  as  he  stretched  his  limbs  in  his  easy-chair, 
and  drank  off  the  last  glass  of  his  pint  of  port.  "If  1  have  not 
already  seen,  I  have  already  guessed  enough  of  the  world,  to 
know  that  you  are  to  look  to  your  pockets  when  a  man  offers 
you  a  present  ;  they  who  '  give,'  also  *  take  away.'  So  here  I 
am  in  London,  with  an  order  for  _;^iooo  in  my  purse,  the  wis- 
dom of  Dr.  Latinas  in  my  head,  and  the  health  of  eighteen  in 
my  veins  ;  will  it  not  be  my  own  fault  if  I  do  not  both  enjff^ 
and  vmke  myself — " 

And  then,  yielding  to  meditations  of  future  success,  partak4 
ing  strongly  of  the  inexperienced  and  sanguine  temperament 
of  the  soliloquist,  Clarence  passed  the  hours,  till  his  pillow  sum' 


46  THE    DISOWNED. 

moned  him  to  dreams  no  less  ardent,  and  perhaps  no  less  un- 
real. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  be  employed. — Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

Clarence  was  sitting  the  next  morning  over  the  very  unsatis- 
factory breakfast  which  tea  made  out  of  broomsticks,  and  cream 
out  of  chalk  (adulteration  thrived  even  in  17 — ),  afforded, 
when  the  waiter  threw  open  the  door,  and  announced  Mr. 
Brown. 

"Just  in  time,  sir,  you  perceive,"  said  Mr.  Brown  ;  "I  am 
punctuality  itself  :  exactly  a  quarter  of  a  minute  to  ten.  I  have 
brought  you  the  pots  of  French  mustard,  and  I  have  some  very 
valuable  articles  which  you  tnust  want,  besides." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Linden,  not  well  knowing  what  to  say; 
and  Mr.  Brown,  untying  a  silk  handkerchief,  produced  three 
shirts,  two  pots  of  pomatum,  a  tobacco  canister,  with  a  German 
pipe,  four  pair  of  silk  stockings,  two  gold  seals,  three  rings,  and 
a  stuffed  parrot ! 

"  Beautiful  articles  these,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  with  a  snuffle 
**of  inward  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  and  expressive  of  great 
admiration  of  his  offered  treasures ;  "  beautiful  articles,  sir, 
ar'n't  they  ?" 

"Very,  the  parrot  in  particular,"  said  Clarence. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Brown,  "the  parrot  is  indeed  quite 
a  jewel ;  it  belonged  to  the  late  Lady  Waddilove  ;  I  offer  it  to 
you  with  considerable  regret,  for — " 

"Oh!"  interrupted  Clarence  "pray  do  not  rob  yourself  of 
such  a  jewel,  it  really  is  of  no  use  to  me." 

"I  know  that,  sir — I  know  that,"  replied  Mr.  Brown  ;  "but 
it  will  be  of  use  to  your  friends  ;  it  will  be  inestimable  to  any 
old  aunt,  sir,  any  maiden  lady  living  at  Hackney,  any  curious 
elderly  gentleman  fond  of  a  nick-nack.  I  knew  you  would 
know  some  one  to  send  it  to  as  a  present,  even  though  you 
should  not  want  it  yourself." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  thought  Linden,  "  was  there  ever  such  gener- 
osity! Not  content  with  providing  for  my  wants,  he  extends 
his  liberality  even  to  any  possible  relations  I  may  possess !  " 

Mr.  Brown  now  re-tied  "the  beautiful  articles"  in  his  hand- 
kerchief.    "  Shall  I  leave  them,  sir  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Why,  really,"  said  Clarence,  "  I  thought  yesterday  that  you 
were  in  jest ;  but  you  must  be  aware  that  I  cannot  accept  pres* 


Tttfi   DISOWNED.  47 

ents  from  any  gentleman  so  much — so  much  a  stranger  to  me  as 
you  are." 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  aware  of  that,"  replied  Mr.  Brown  ;  ''and  in 
order  to  remove  the  unpleasantness  of  such  a  feeling,  sir,  on 
your  part — merely  in  order  to  do  that,  I  assure  you  with  no 
other  view,  sir,  in  the  world — I  have  just  noted  down  the  arti- 
cles on  this  piece  of  paper ;  but,  as  you  will  perceive,  at  a  price 
so  low,  as  still  to  make  them  actually  presents  in  everything 
but  the  name.  Oh,  sir,  I  perfectly  understand-  your  delicacy, 
and  would  not,  for  the  world,  violate  it." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Brown  put  a  paper  into  Linden's  hands  the 
substance  of  which  a  very  little  more  experience  of  the  world 
would  have  enabled  Clarence  to  foresee:   it  ran  thus : 

Clarence  Linden,  Esq.,  Dr. 

To  Mr.  Morris  Brow*. 
To  Six  Pots  of  French  Mustard,  .  .  .  .    £  \      ^    O 

To  Three   Superfine   Holland  Shirts,   with   Cambric  Bosoms, 

complete,      .  .  .  .  .  .  410 

To  Two  Pots  of  Superior  French  Pomatum,      .  ,  .         o     lo    o 

To  a  Tobacco  Canister  of  enamelled  Tin,  with  a  finely  executed 

head  of  the  Pretender  :  slight  flaw  in  the  same.       .  0126 

To  a  German  Pipe,  second  hand,  as  good  as  new,  belonging  to 

the  late  Lady  Waddilove.  .  .  .  .1180 

To  Four  Pair  of  Black  Silk  Hose,  ditto,  belonging  to  hier  Lady- 
ship's husband.         .  .  .  .  .  280 

To  two  superfine  Embossed  Gold  Watch  Seals,  with  a  Classical 
Motto  and  Device  to  each,  viz..  Mouse  Trap  and  "  Prenez 
Garde,"  to  one,  and  "  Who  the  devil  can  this  be  from  ?  "  * 
to  the  other        .  .  .  .  .  .110 

To  a  remarkably   fine   Antique  Ring,   having  the  head   of   a 

Monkey.        .  .  .  .  .  .  o     16     6 

A  ditto,  with  blue  stones.  .  .  .  .  .0126 

A  ditto,  with  green  ditto    .  .  .  .  .  o     12     6 

A   stuffed    green   parrot,    a  remarkable  favorite   of    the    late 
Lady  W,  ..... 

Sum  Total  ...... 

Deduction  for  Ready  Money     ,  .  .  , 

Mr.  Brown's  profits  for  Brokerage.  .  . 

Sum  Total        ...... 

Received  of  Clarence  Linden,  Esq.,  this  day  of  17 — . 

It  would  have  been  no  unamusing  study  to  watch  the  expres- 
sion of  Clarence's  face  as  it  lengthened  over  each  article  until 

•  One  would  not  have  thought  these  ingenious  devices  had  been  of  so  ancient  a  date  ai 
the  year  17—. 


2 

2 

0 

15 
0 

18 
13 

0 
6 

15 

I 

4 
10 

6 
0 

£xt 

14 

6 

48  THE   DISOWNED. 

he  had  reached  the  final  conclusion.  He  then  carefully  folded 
up  the  paper,  restored  it  to  Mr.  Brown,  with  a  low  bow,  and 
said,  "Excuse  me,  sir,  I  will  not  take  advantage  of  your  gener- 
osity ;  keep  your  parrot  and  other  treasures  for  some  more 
worthy  person.  I  cannot  accept  of  what  you  are  pleased  to  term 
your  very  valuable /;-<?j(?«/.y./" 

"Oh,  very  well,  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  pocketing  the 
paper,  and  seeming  perfectly  unconcerned  at  the  termination 
of  his  proposals ;  "  perhaps  I  can  serve  you  in  some  other  way  ? " 

"  In  none,  I  thank  you,"   replied  Linden, 

"  Just  consider,  sir  ! — you  will  want  lodgings  :  I  can  find  them 
for  you,  cheaper  than  you  can  yourself ;  or  perhaps  you  would 
prefer  going  into  a  nice,  quiet,  genteel  family,  where  you  can 
have  both  board  and  lodging,  and  be  treated  in  every  way  as 
the  pet  child  of  the  master  ?" 

A  thought  crossed  Linden's  mind.  He  was  going  to  stay  in 
town  some  time  ;  he  was  ignorant  of  its  ways  ;  he  had  neither 
iFriends  nor  relations,  at  least  none  whom  he  could  visit  and 
consult ;  moreover,  hotels,  he  knev.',  were  expensive  ;  lodgings, 
though  cheaper,  might,  if  tolerably  comfortable,  greatly  exceed 
the  sum  prudence  would  allow  him  to  expend  ;  would  not  this 
plan  proposed  by  Mr.  Brown,  of  going  into  a  "nice,  quiet,  gen- 
teel family,"  be  the  most  advisable  one  he  could  adopt  ?  The 
generous  benefactor  of  the  late  and  ever- to-be-remembered  Lady 
Waddilove  perceived  his  advantage,  and,  making  the  most  of 
Clarence's  hesitation,  continued — 

"  I  know  of  a  charming  little  abode,  sir,  situated  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  London,  quite  rus  in  urbe,  as  the  scholars  say ;  you 
can  have  a  delightful  little  back  parlor,  looking  out  upon  the 
garden,  and  all  to  yourself  I  dare  say." 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Brown,"  interrupted  Linden,  "  what  price  do 
you  think  would  be  demanded  for  such  enviable  accommoda- 
tion ? — If  you  offer  me  them  as  ^  a  present,'  I  shall  have  nothing 
to  say  to  them." 

"Oh,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Brown,  "the  price  will  be  a  trifle — 
a  mere  trifle;  but  I  will  inquire,  and  let  you  know  the  exact 
sum  in  the  course  of  the  day — all  they  want  is  a  respectable, 
gentlemanlike  lodger ;  and  I  am  sure  so  near  a  relation  of  Mrs. 
Minden  will,  upon  my  recommendation,  be  received  with  avid- 
ity. Then  you  wont  have  any  of  these  valuable  articles,  sir? 
You'll  repent  it,  sir — take  my  word  for  it — hem  ! " 

"Since,"  replied  Clarence  drily,  "your  word  appears  of  so 
much  more  value  than  your  articles,  pardon  me  if  I  prefer 
taking  the  former  instead  of  the  latter." 


THE   DISOWNED.  49 

Mr.  Brown  forced  a  smile.  "Well,  sir,  very  well,  very  well, 
indeed.  You  will  not  go  out  before  two  o'clock  ?  and  at  that 
time  I  shall  call  upon  you  respecting  the  commission  you  have 
favored  me  with." 

"  I  will  await  you,"  said  Clarence  ;  and  he  bowed  Mr.  Brown 
out  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  really,"  said  Linden  to  himself,  as  he  paced  the  nar- 
row limits  of  his  apartment,  "  I  do  not  see  what  better  plan  I 
can  pursue — but  let  me  well  consider  what  is  my  ultimate  ob- 
ject. A  high  step  in  the  world's  ladder ! — how  is  this  to  be 
obtained?  First,  by  the  regular  method  of  professions  ;  but 
what  profession  should  I  adopt?  The  church  is  incompatible 
with  my  object — the  army  and  navy  with  my  means.  Next 
come  the  irregular  methods  of  adventure  and  enterprise — such 
as  marriage  with  a  fortune" — here  he  paused  ancf  looked  at 
the  glass — "the  speculation  of  a  political  pamphlet,  or  an 
ode  to  the  minister — attendance  on  some  dying  miser  of  my 
own  name,  without  a  relation  in  the  world — or,  in  short,  any 
other  mode  of  making  money  that  may  decently  offer  itself. 
Now,  situated  as  I  am,  without  a  friend  in  this  great  city,  I 
might  as  well  purchase  my  experience  at  as  cheap  a  rate  and 
in  as  brief  a  time  as  possible,  nor  do  1  see  any  plan  of  doing 
so  more  promising  that  that  proposed  by  Mr.  Brown." 

These  and  such  like  reflections,  joined  to  the  inspiriting 
pages  of  the  "Newgate  Calendar,"  and  "The  Covent  Garden 
Magazine,"  two  works  which  Clarence  dragged  from  their  con- 
cealment under  a  black  tea-tray,  afforded  him  ample  occupa- 
tion till  the  hour  of  two,  punctual  to  which  time  Mr.  Morris 
Brown  returned. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  "what  is  your  report  ?" 

The  friend  of  the  late  Lady  W.  wiped  his  brow  and  gave 
three  long  sighs  before  he  replied  :  "A  long  walk,  sir — a  very 
long  walk  I  have  had  ;  but  I  have  succeeded.  No  thanks, 
sir — no  thanks — the  lady,  a  most  charming,  delightful,  amiable 
woman,  will  receive  you  with  pleasure — you  will  have  the  use 
of  a  back  parlor  (as  I  said)  all  the  morning,  and  a  beautiful 
little  bedroom  entirely  to  yourself — think  of  that,  sir.  You 
will  have  an  egg  for  breakfast,  and  you  will  dine  with  the 
family  at  three  o'clock ;  quite  fashionable  hours  you  see, 
sir." 

"And  the  terms?"  said  Linden  impatiently. 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  "the  lady  was  too  genteel 
to  talk  to  me  about  them — you  had  better  walk  with  me  to  her 
house  and  see  if  you  cannot  yourself  agree  with  her." 


5^  THE   DISOWNED. 

"I  will,"  said  Clarence.  "Will  you  wait  here  till  I  have 
dressed?" 

Mr.  Brown  bowed  his  assent. 

"  I  might  as  well,"  thought  Clarence,  as  he  ascended  to  his 
bedroom,  "  inquire  into  the  character  of  this  gentleman,  to 
whose  good  offices  I  am  so  rashly  entrusting  myself."  He 
rang  his  bell — the  chambermaid  appeared,  and  was  dismissed 
for  the  waiter.  The  character  was  soon  asked,  and  soon  given. 
For  our  reader's  sake,  we  will  somewhat  enlarge  upon  it. 

Mr.  Morris  Brown  originally  came  into  the  world  with  the 
simple  appellation  of  Moses,  a  name  which  his  father — honest 
man — had,  as  the  Minories  can  still  testify,  honorably  borne 
before  him.  Scarcely,  however,  had  the  little  Moses  attained 
the  age  of  five,  when  his  father,  for  causes  best  known  to  him- 
self, becamfe  a  Christian.  Somehow  or  other  there  is  a  most 
potent  connection  between  the  purse  and  the  conscience, 
and  accordingly  the  blessings  of  heaven  descended  in 
golden  showers  upon  the  proselyte.  "  I  shall  die  worth  a 
plum,"  said  Moses  the  elder  (who  had  taken  unto  himself  the 
Christian  cognomen  of  Brown );  "I  shall  die  worth  a  plum," 
repeated  he,  as  he  went  one  fine  morning  to  speculate  at  the 
Exchange.  A  change  of  news,  sharp  and  unexpected  as  a 
change  of  wind,  lowered  the  stocks  and  blighted  the  plum.  Mr. 
Brown  was  in  the  Gazette  that  week,  and  his  wife  in  weeds  for 
him  the  next.  He  left  behind  him,  besides  the  said  wife,  several 
debts  and  his  son  Moses.  Beggared  by  the  former,  our  widow 
took  a  small  shop  in  Wardour  Street  to  support  the  latter. 
Patient,  but  enterprising — cautious  of  risking  pounds,  indefati- 
gable in  raising  pence — the  little  Moses  inherited  the  propen- 
sities of  his  Hebrew  ancestors  ;  and,  though  not  so  capable  as 
his  immediate  progenitor  of  making  a  fortune,  he  was  at  least 
far  less  likely  to  lose  one.  In  spite,  however,  of  all  the  in- 
dustry, both  of  mother  and  son,  the  gains  of  the  shop  were  but 
scanty ;  to  increase  them  capital  was  required,  and  all  Mr. 
Moses  Brown's  capital  lay  in  his  brain.  "  It  is  a  bad  founda- 
tion," said  the  mother,  with  a  sigh.  "Not  at  all !"  said  the 
son,  and,  leaving  the  shop,  he  turned  broker.  Now  a  broker  is 
a  man  who  makes  an  income  out  of  other  people's  funds — a 
gleaner  of  stray  extravagances  ;  and  by  doing  the  public  the 
honor  of  living  upon  them,  may  fairly  be  termed  a  little  sort  of 
state  minister  in  his  way.  What  with  haunting  sales,  hawking 
china,  selling  the  curiosities  of  one  old  lady,  and  purchasing 
the  same  for  another,  Mr.  Brown  managed  to  enjoy  a  very 
comfortable  existence.     Great  pains  and  small  gains  will  at  last 


THE    DISOWNED.  $t 

invert  their  antitheses,  and  make  little  trouble  and  great  profit ; 
so  that  by  the  time  Mr.  Brown  had  attained  his  fortieth  year, 
the  petty  shop  had  become  a  large  warehouse  ;  and,  if  the 
worthy  Moses,  now  christianized  into  Morris,  was  not  so 
sanguine  as  his  father  in  the  gathering  of  plums,  he  had 
been  at  least  as  fortunate  in  the  collecting  of  windfalls.  To 
say  truth,  the  Abigail  of  the  defunct  Lady  VVaddilove  had  been 
no  unprofitable  helpmate  to  our  broker.  As  ingenious  as  be- 
nevolent, she  was  the  owner  of  certain  rooms  of  great  resort  in 
the  neighborhood  of  St.  James's — rooms  where  caps  and  ap- 
pointments were  made  better  than  any  place  else,  and  where 
credit  was  given,  and  character  lost,  upon  terms  equally  ad- 
vantageous to  the  accommodating  Mrs.  Brown. 

Meanwhile  her  husband,  continuing  through  liking  what  he 
had  begun  through  necessity,  slackened  not  his  industry  in 
augmenting  his  fortune ;  on  the  contrary,  small  profits  were 
but  a  keener  incentive  to  large  ones — as  the  glutton  only  sharp- 
ened by  luncheon  his  appetite  for  dinner.  Still  was  Mr.  Brown 
the  very  Alcibiades  of  brokers — the  universal  genius — suiting 
every  man  to  his  humor.  Business,  of  whatever  description, 
from  the  purchase  of  a  borough  to  that  of  a  brooch,  was  alike 
the  object  of  Mr.  Brown's  must  zealous  pursuit ;  taverns,  where 
country  cousins  put  up — rustic  habitations,  where  ancient 
maidens  resided — auction,  or  barter — city,  or  hamlet — all  were 
the  same  to  that  enterprising  spirit,  which  made  out  of  every 
acquaintance — a  commission  !  Sagacious  and  acute,  Mr.  Brown 
perceived  the  value  of  eccentricity  in  covering  design,  and 
found,  by  experience,  that  whatever  can  be  laughed  at  as  odd 
will  be  gravely  considered  as  harmless.  Several  of  the 
broker's  peculiarities  were,  therefore,  more  artificial  than 
natural ;  and  many  were  the  sly  bargains  which  he  smuggled 
into  effect  under  the  comfortable  cloak  of  singularity.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  the  crafty  Morris  grew  gradually  in  repute 
as  a  person  of  infinite  utility  and  excellent  qualifications ;  or 
that  the  penetrating  friends  of  his  deceased  sire  bowed  to  the 
thriving  itinerant,  with  a  respect  which  they  denied  to  many 
in  loftier  professions  and  more  general  esteem. 


52  THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Trast  me  you  have  an  exceeding  fine  lodging  here— very  neat  and  pri- 
vate."— Ben  Jonson. 

It  was  a  tolerably  long  walk  to  the  abode  of  which  the  worthy 
broker  spoke  in  such  high  terms  of  commendation.  At  length, 
at  the  suburbs  towards  Paddington,  Mr.  Brown  stopped  at  a  very 
small  house  :  it  stood  rather  retired  from  its  surrounding  neigh- 
bors, which  were  of  a  loftier  and  more  pretending  aspect  than 
itself,  and,  in  its  awkward  shape  and  pitiful  bashfulness,  looked 
exceedingly  like  a  school-boy  finding  himself  for  the  first  time 
in  a  grown-up  party,  and  shrinking  with  all  possible  expedition 
into  the  obscurest  corner  he  can  discover.  Passing  through  a 
sort  of  a  garden,  in  which  a  spot  of  grass  lay  in  the  embraces  of 
a  stripe  of  gravel,  Mr.  Brown  knocked  upon  a  very  bright 
knocker  at  a  very  new  door.  The  latter  was  opened,  and  a  foot- 
boy  appeared. 

"Is  Mrs.  Copperas  within?"  asked  the  broker. 

"Yees,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Show  this  gentleman  and  myself  upstairs,"  resumed  Brown. 

"  Yees,"    reiterated  the  lackey. 

Up  a  singularly  narrow  staircase,  into  a  singularly  diminu- 
tive drawing-room,  Clarence  and  his  guide  were  ushered.  There, 
seated  on  a  little  chair  by  a  little  work-table  with  one  foot  on  a 
little  stool  and  one  hand  on  a  little  book,  was  a  little — very  little 
lady. 

"  This  is  the  young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Brown  ;  and  Clarence 
bowed  low,  in  token  of  the  introduction. 

The  lady  returned  the  salutation  with  an  affected  bend,  and 
said,  in  a  mincing  and  grotesquely  subdued  tone — "  You  are 
desirous,  sir,  of  entering  into  the  bosom  of  my  family.  We  possess 
accommodations  of  a  most  elegant  description  ;  accustomed 
to  the  genteelest  circles — enjoying  the  pure  breezes  of  the  High- 
gate  hills — and  presenting  to  any  guest  we  may  receive  the  at- 
tractions of  a  home  rather  than  a  lodging,  you  will  find  our  retreat 
no  less  eligible  than  unique.  You  are,  I  presume,  sir,  in  some 
profession — some  city  avocation — or — or  trade?" 

**  I  have  the  misfortune,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  to  belong  to  no 
profession." 

The  lady  looked  hard  at  the  speaker,  and  then  at  the  broker. 
With  certain  people,  to  belong  to  no  profession  is  to  be  of  no 
respectability. 


THE    DISOWNED.  5J 

"  The  most  unexceptionable  references  will  be  given — and 
required"  resumed  Mrs.  Copperas. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "certainly,  the  gentleman  is 
a  relation  of  Mrs.  Minden,  a  very  old  customer  of  mine." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Mrs.  Copperas,  "the  affair  is  settled": 
and  rising,  she  rung  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  footboy,  whom  she 
addressed  by  the  grandiloquent  name  oide  Warens,  to  show  the 
gentleman  the  apartments.  While  Clarence  was  occupied  in 
surveying  the  luxuries  of  a  box  at  the  top  of  the  house,  called  a 
bed-chamber,  which  seemed  just  large  and  just  hot  enough  for  a 
chrysalis,  and  a  corresponding  box  below,  termed  the  back  parlor, 
which  would  certainly  not  have  been  large  enough  for  the  said 
chrysalis,  when  turned  into  a  butterfly,  Mr.  Morris  Brown,  after 
duly  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  Clarence,  proceeded  to  speak  of 
the  terms  ;  these  were  soon  settled,  for  Clarence  was  yielding,  and 
the  lady  not  above  three  times  as  extortionate  as  she  ought  to 
have  been. 

Before  Linden  left  the  house,  the  bargain  was  concluded. 
That  night  his  trunks  were  removed  to  his  new  abode,  and  having 
with  incredible  difficulty  been  squeezed  into  the  bed-room, 
Clarence  surveyed  them  with  the  same  astonishment  with  which 
the  virtuoso  beheld  the  flies  in  amber  : 

"  Not  that  the  things  were  either  rich  or  rare. 
He  wonder'd  how  the  devil  they  got  there  1 " 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Such  scenes  had  tempered  with  a  pensive  grace, 
The  maiden  lustre  of  that  faultless  face; 
Had  hung  a  sad  and  dream-like  spell  upon 
The  gliding  music  of  her  silver  tone. 
And  shaded  the  soft  soul  which  loved  to  lie 
In  the  deep  pathos  of  that  voluraed  eye." — O'  Neill,  or  the  Rebel. 

"  The  love  thus  kindled  between  them  was  of  no  common  or  calculating 
nature  ;  it  was  vigorous  and  delicious,  and  at  times  so  suddenly  intense  as  to 
appear  to  their  young  hearts  for  a  moment  or  so,  with  almost  an  awful 
character." — Itiesilla. 

The  reader  will  figure  to  himself  a  small  chamber,  in  a  remote 
wing  of  a  large  and  noble  mansion — the  walls  were  covered 
with  sketches,  whose  .extreme  delicacy  of  outline  and  coloring 
betrayed  the  sex  of  the  artist ;  a  few  shelves  filled  with  books 
supported  vases  of  flowers,     A  harp   ?tood   neglected   at   th9 


54  THE    DISOWNED, 

farther  end  of  the  room,  and  just  above  hung  the  slender  prison 
of  one  of  those  golden  wanderers  from  the  Canary  Isles,  which 
bear  to  our  colder  land  some  of  the  gentlest  music  of  their  skies 
and  zephyrs.  The  window,  reaching  to  the  ground,  was  open, 
and  looked  through  the  clusters  of  jessamine  and  honeysuckle 
which  surrounded  the  low  verandah  beyond,  upon  thick  and 
frequent  copses  of  blossoming  shrubs,  redolent  of  spring,  and 
sparkling  in  the  sunny  tears  of  a  May  shower,  which  had  only  just 
wept  itself  away.  Embosomed  in  these  little  groves  lay  plots 
of  flowers,  girdled  with  turf  as  green  as  ever  wooed  the  nightly 
dances  of  the  fairies  ;  and  afar  off,  through  one  artful  opening, 
the  eye  caught  the  glittering  wanderings  of  water,  on  whose  light 
and  smiles  the  universal  happiness  of  the  young  year  seemed 
reflected. 

But  in  that  chamber,  heedless  of  all  around,  and  cold  to  the 
joy  with  which  everything  else,  equally  youthful,  beautiful,  and 
innocent,  seemed  breathing  and  inspired,  sat  a  very  young  and 
lovely  female.  Her  cheek  leant  upon  her  hand,  and  large  tears 
flowed  fast  and  burningly  over  the  small  and  delicate  fingers. 
The  comb  that  had  confined  her  tresses  lay  at  her  feet,  and  the 
high  dress  which  concealed  her  swelling  breast  had  been 
loosened,  to  give  vent  to  the  suffocating  and  indignant  throb- 
bings  which  had  rebelled  against  its  cincture — all  appeared,  to 
announce  that  bitterness  of  grief  when  the  mind,  as  it  were, 
wreaks  its  scorn  upon  the  body  in  its  contempt  for  external 
seemings,  and  to  proclaim  that  the  present  more  subdued  and 
softened  sorrow  had  only  succeeded  to  a  burst  far  less  quiet  and 
uncontrolled.  Woe  to  those  who  eat  the  bread  of  dependence — 
their  tears  are  wrung  from  the  inmost  sources  of  the  heart. 

Isabel  St.  Leger  was  the  only  child  of  a  captain  in  the  army, 
who  died  in  her  infancy  ;  her  mother  had  survived  him  but  a 
few  months  ;  and  to  the  reluctant  care  and  cold  affections  of  a 
distant  and  wealthy  relation  of  the  same  name,  the  warm-hearted 
and  penniless  orphan  was  consigned.  Major-General  Cornelius 
St.  Leger,  whose  riches  had  been  purchased  in  India  at  the 
price  of  his  constitution,  was  of  a  temper  as  hot  as  his  curries, 
and  he  wreaked  it  the  more  unsparingly  on  his  ward,  because 
the  superior  ill-temper  of  his  maiden  sister  had  prevented  his 
giving  vent  to  it  upon  her.  That  sister,  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger, 
was  a  meagre  gentlewoman  of  about  six  feet  high,  with  a  loud 
voice  and  commanding  aspect.  Long  in  awe  of  her  brother, 
she  rejoiced  at  heart  to  find  some  one  whgm  she  had  such  right 
and  reason  to  make  in  awe  of  herself;  and  from  the  age  of  four 
to  that  of  seventeen,  Isabel  suffered  every  insult  and  every 


TH£  DISOWNED.  55 

degradation  which  could  be  inflicted  upon  her  by  the  tyranny 
of  her  two  protectors.  Her  spirit,  however,  was  far  from  being 
broken  by  the  rude  shocks  it  received  ;  on  the  contrary,  her 
mind,  gentleness  itself  to  the  kind,  rose  indignantly  against  the 
unjust.  It  was  true  that  the  sense  of  wrong  did  not  break  forth 
audibly  :  for,  though  susceptible,  Isabel  was  meek,  and  her 
pride  was  concealed  by  the  outward  softness  and  feminacy  of 
her  temper;  but  she  stole  away  from  those  who  had  wounded 
her  heart,  or  trampled  upon  its  feelings,  and  nourished  with 
secret,  but  passionate,  tears  the  memory  of  the  harshness  or 
injustice  she  had  endured.  Yet  she  was  not  vindictive — her 
resentment  was  a  noble  not  a  debasing  feeling ;  once,  when  she 
was  yet  a  child,  Miss  Diana  was  attacked  with  a  fever  of  the 
most  malignant  and  infectious  kind  ;  her  brother  loved  himself 
far  too  well  to  risk  his  safety  by  attending  her ;  the  servants 
were  too  happy  to  wreak  their  hatred  under  the  pretence  of 
obeying  their  fears  ;  the^  consequently  followed  the  example 
of  their  master ;  and  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger  might  have  gone 
down  to  her  ancestors  "unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung,"  if 
Isabel  had  not  volunteered  and  enforced  her  attendance. 
Hour  after  hour  her  fairy  form  flitted  around  the  sick  chamber, 
or  sat  mute  and  breathless  by  the  feverish  bed  ;  she  had  neither 
fear  for  contagion  nor  bitterness  for  past  oppression  ;  every- 
thing vanished  beneath  the  one  hope  of  serving,  the  one  gratifi- 
cation of  feeling  herself,  in  the  wide  waste  of  creation,  not 
utterly  without  use,  as  she  had  been  hitherto  without  friends. 

Miss  St.  Leger  recovered.  "  For  your  recovery,  in  the  first 
place,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you  will  thank  Heaven  ;  in  the  second 
you  will  thank  your  young  relation,"  and  for  several  days  the 
convalescent  did  overwhelm  the  happy  Isabel  with  her  praises 
and  caresses.  But  this  change  did  not  last  long  :  the  chaste 
Diana  had  been  too  spoiled  by  the  prosperity  of  many  years, 
for  the  sickness  of  a  single  month  to  effect  much  good  in  her 
.disposition.  Her  old  habits  were  soon  resumed  ;  and  though 
it  is  probable  that  her  heart  was  in  reality  softened  towards  the 
poor  Isabel,  that  softening  by  no  means  extended  to  hertemper. 
In  truth,  the  brother  and  sister  were  not  without  affection  for 
one  so  beautiful  and  good,  but  they  had  been  torturing  slaves 
all  their  lives,  and  their  affection  was,  and  could  be,  but  that 
of  a  task-master  or  a  planter. 

J  But  Isabel  was  the  only  relation  who  ever  appeared  within 
their  walls,  and  among  the  guests,  with  whom  the  luxurious 
mansion  was  crowded,  she  passed  no  less  for  the  heiress  than 
ithe  dependant ;  to  her,  thereforey  was  offered  the  homage  of 


■^6  THE   DIS0VVNEi3. 

many  lips  and  hearts,  and  if  her  pride  was  perpetually  galled, 
and  her  feelings  insulted  in  private,  her  vanity  (had  that  equalled 
her  pride,  and  her  feelings,  in  its  susceptibility)  would  in  no 
slight  measure  have  recompensed  her  in  public.  Unhappily, 
however,  her  vanity  was  the  least  prominent  quality  she  pos- 
sessed ;  and  the  compliments  of  mercenary  adulation  were  not 
more  rejected  by  her  heart  than  despised  by  her  understanding. 

Yet  did  she  bear  within  her  a  deep  fund  of  buried  tenderness, 
and  a  mine  of  girlish  and  enthusiastic  romance;  dangerous 
gifts  to  one  so  situated,  which,  while  they  gave  to  her  secret 
moments  of  solitude  a  powerful,  but  vague  attraction,  probably 
only  prepared  for  her  future  years  the  snare  which  might  betray 
them  into  error,  or  the  delusion  which  would  color  them  with 
regret. 

Among  those  whom  the  ostentatious  hospitality  of  General 
St.  Leger  attracted  to  his  house,  was  one  of  very  different 
character  and  pretensions  to  the  resj.  Formed  to  be  unpopu- 
lar with  the  generality  of  men,  the  very  qualities  that  made  him 
so  were  those  which  principally  fascinate  the  higher  description 
of  women  of  ancient  birth,  which  rendered  still  more  displeas- 
ing the  pride  and  coldness  of  his  mien  ;  of  talents  peculiarly 
framed  to  attract  interest  as  well  as  esteem  ;  of  a  deep  and 
somewhat  morbid  melancholy,  which,  while  it  turned  from 
ordinary  ties,  inclined  yearningly  towards  passionate  affections; 
of  a  temper,  where  romance  was  only  concealed  from  the  many, 
to  become  more  seductive  to  the  few ;  unsocial,  but  benevo- 
lent ;  disliked,  but  respected ;  of  the  austerest  demeanor,  but 
of  passions  the  most  fervid,  though  the  most  carefully  con- 
cealed,— this  man  united  within  himself  all  that  repels  the 
common  mass  of  his  species,  and  all  that  irresistibly  wins  and 
fascinates  the  rare  and  romantic  few.  To  these  qualities  were 
added  a  carriage  and  bearing  of  that  high  and  commanding 
order,  which  men  mistake  for  arrogance  and  pretension,  and 
women  overrate  in  proportion  to  its  contrast  to  their  own. 
Something  of  mystery  there  was  in  the  commencement  of  the 
deep  and  eventful  love  which  took  place  between  this  person 
and  Isabel,  which  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn  :  whatever  it 
was,  it  seemed  to  expedite  and  heighten  the  ordinary  progress 
of  love;  and  when  in  the  dim  twilight,  beneath  the  first  melan- 
choly smile  of  the  earliest  star,  their  hearts  opened  audibly  to 
each  other,  that  confession  had  been  made  silently  long  since, 
and  registered  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  soul. 

But  their  passion,  which  began  in  prosperity,  was  soon 
jdarkened.     Whether  he  took    offence   at  the  haughtiness  of 


THE    DISOWNED.  57 

Isabel's  lover,  or  whether  he  desired  to  retain  about  him  an 
object  which  he  could  torment  and  tyrannize  over,  no  sooner 
did  the  General  discover  the  attachment  of  his  young  relation, 
than  he  peremptorily  forbade  its  indulgence,  and  assumed  so 
insolent  and  overbearing  an  air  towards  the  lover,  that  the 
latter  felt  he  could  no  longer  repeat  his  visits  to,  or  even  con- 
tinue his  acquaintance  with,  the  nabob. 

To  add  to  these  adverse  circumstances,  a  relation  of  the 
lover,  from  whom  his  expectations  had  been  large,  was  so 
enraged,  not  only  at  the  insult  his  cousin  had  received,  but  at 
the  very  idea  of  his  forming  an  alliance  with  one  in  so  depend- 
ent a  situation,  and  connected  with  such  new  blood,  as  Isabel 
St.  Leger,  that,  with  that  arrogance  which  relations,  however 
distant,  think  themselves  authorized  to  assume,  he  enjoined  his 
cousin,  upon  pain  of  forfeiture  of  favor  and  fortune,  to  renounce 
all  idea  of  so  disparaging  an  alliance.  The  one  thus  addressed 
was  not  of  a  temper  patiently  to  submit  to  such  threats  ;  he 
answered  them  with  disdain,  and  the  breach,  so  dangerous  to 
his  pecuniary  interest,  was  already  begun. 

So  far  had  the  history  of  our  lover  proceeded  at  the  time  in 
which  we  have  introduced  Isabel  to  the  reader,  and  described 
to  him  the  chamber  to  which,  in  all  her  troubles  and  humili- 
ations, she  was  accustomed  to  fly,  as  to  a  sad,  but  still  unvio- 
lated,  sanctuary  of  retreat. 

The  quiet  of  this  asylum  was  first  broken  by  a  slight  rustling 
among  the  leaves ;  but  Isabel's  back  was  turned  towards  the 
window,  and  in  the  engrossment  of  her  feelings  she  heard  it  not. 
The  thick  copse  that  darkened  the  left  side  of  the  verandah 
was  pierced,  and  a  man  passed  within  the  covered  space,  and 
stood  still  and  silent  before  the  window,  intently  gazing  upon 
the  figure  which  (though  the  face  was  turned  from  him)  be- 
trayed in  its  proportions  that  beauty  which,  in  his  eyes,  had 
neither  an  equal  nor  a  fault. 

The  figure  of  the  stranger,  though  not  very  tall,  was  above 
the  ordinary  height,  and  gracefully,  rather  than  robustly,  formed, 
He  was  dressed  in  the  darkest  colors  and  the  simplest  fashion, 
which  rendered  yet  more  striking  the  nobleness  of  his  mien,  as 
well  as  the  clear  and  almost  delicate  paleness  of  his  complexion  ; 
his  features  were  finely  and  accurately  formed  ;  and  had  not  ill 
health,  long  travel,  or  severe  thought  deepened  too  much  the 
lines  of  the  countenance,  and  sharpened  its  contour,  the  classic 
perfection  of  those  features  would  have  rendered  him  undenia- 
bly and  even  eminently  handsome  :  as  it  was,  the  paleness  and 
the  somewhat  worn  character  of  his  face,  joined  to  an  expreg* 


§8  THE    DISOWNED. 

sion,  at  first  glance,  rather  haughty  and  repellent,  made  him 
lose  in  physical  what  he  certainly  gained  in  intellectual  beauty. 
His  eyes  were  large,  deep,  and  melancholy,  and  had  the  hat 
which  now  hung  over  his  brow  been  removed,  it  would  have 
displayed  a  forehead  of  remarkable  boldness  and  power. 

Altogether  the  face  was  cast  in  a  rare  and  intellectual  mould, 
and,  if  wanting  in  those  more  luxuriant  attractions  common  to 
the  age  of  the  stranger,  who  could  scarcely  have  attained  his 
twenty-sixth  year,  it  betokened,  at  least,  that  predominance  of 
mind  over  body,  which,  in  some  eyes,  is  the  most  requisite  char- 
acteristic of  masculine  beauty. 

With  a  soft  and  noiseless  step,  the  stranger  moved  from  his 
station,  without  the  window,  and,  entering  the  room,  stole  to- 
wards the  spot  on  which  Isabel  was  sitting.  He  leant  over  her 
chair,  and  his  eye  rested  upon  his  own  picture,  and  a  letter  in 
his  own  writing,  over  which  the  tears  of  the  young  orphan 
flowed  fast. 

A  moment  more  of  agitated  happiness  for  one — of  uncon- 
scious and  continued  sadness  for  the  other — 

' '  *Tis  past — ^her  lover's  at  her  feet. " 

And  what  indeed  "was  to  them  the  world  beside,  with  all  its 
changes  of  time  and  tide  ?  "  Joy — hope — all  blissful  and  bright, 
sensations,  lay  mingled  like  meeting  waters,  in  one  sunny  stream 
of  heartfelt  and  unfathomable  enjoyment— but  this  passed  away, 
and  the  remembrance  of  bitterness  and  evil  succeeded. 

"Oh,  Algernon  !  "  said  Isabel,  in  a  low  voice,  "is  this  your 
promise?" 

"Believe  me,"  said  Mordaunt,  for  it  was  indeed  he,  "I  strug- 
gled long  with  my  feelings,  but  in  vain  ;  and  for  both  our  sakes, 
I  rejoice  at  the  conquest  they  obtained.  I  listened  only  to  a 
deceitful  delusion  when  I  imagined  I  was  obeying  the  dictates 
of  reason.  Ah,  dearest,  why  should  we  part  for  the  sake  of 
dubious  and  distant  evils,  when  the  misery  of  absence  is  the 
most  certain,  the  most  unceasing  evil  we  can  endure  ?" 

"  For  your  sake,  and  therefore  for  mine  !  "  interrupted  Isabel, 
struggling  with  her  tears.  "  I  am  a  beggar  and  an  outcast. 
You  must  not  link  your  fate  with  mine.  I  could  bear.  Heaven 
knows  now  willingly,  poverty  and  all  its  evils /^r  you  and  with 
you  ;  but  I  cannot  hrino^  them  upon  you." 

"  Nor  will  you,"  said  Mordaunt  passionately,  as  he  covered 
the  hand  he  held  with  his  burning  kisses.  "  Have  I  not  enough 
for  both  of  us?  It  is  my  love,  not  povertV;  that  I  beseech  you 
to  share." 


THE   DISOWNED.  59 

"  No  !  Algernon,  you  cannot  deceive  me  :  your  own  estate 
will  be  torn  from  you  by  the  law  :  if  you  marry  me,  your  cousin 
will  not  assist  you  :  I,  you  know  too  well,  can  command  noth- 
ing; and  I  shall  see  you,  for  whom  in  my  fond  and  bright 
dreams  I  have  presaged  everything  great  and  exalted,  buried 
in  an  obscurity  from  which  your  talents  ca,n  never  rise,  and  suf- 
fering the  pangs  of  poverty,  and  dependence,  and  humiliation 
like  my  own — and — and — I — should  be  the  wretch  who  caused 
you  all.  Never,  Algernon,  never! — 1  love  you  too — too 
well!" 

But  the  effort  which  wrung  forth  the  determination  of  the 
tone  in  which  these  words  were  uttered  was  too  violent  to  en- 
dure ;  and,  as  the  full  desolation  of  her  despair  crowded  fast 
and  dark  upon  the  orphan's  mind,  she  sank  back  upon  her  chair 
in  very  sickness  of  soul,  nor  heeded,  in  her  unconscious  misery, 
that  her  hand  was  yet  clasped  by  her  lover,  and  that  her  head 
drooped  upon  his  bosom. 

"  Isabel,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  sweet  tone,  which  to  her  ear 
seemed  the  concentration  of  all  earthly  music — "Isabel — look 
up — my  own — my  beloved — look  up  and  hear  me.  Perhaps 
you  say  truly  when  you  tell  me  that  the  possessions  of  my  house 
shall  melt  away  from  me,  and  that  my  relation  will  not  offer  to 
me  the  precarious  bounty  which,  even  if  he  did  offer,  I  would 
reject ;  but,  dearest,  are  there  not  a  thousand  paths  open 
to  me — the  law — the  state — the  army? — you  are  silent,  Isabel — 
speak  !  " 

Isabel  did  not  reply,  but  the  soft  eyes  which  rested  upon  his 
told,  in  their  despondency,  how  little  her  reason  was  satisfied 
by  the  arguments  he  urged. 

"Besides,"  he  continued,  "we  know  not  yet  whether  the  law 
may  not  decide  in  my  favor — at  all  events,  years  may  pass  be- 
fore the  judgment  is  given — those  years  make  the  prime  and 
verdure  of  our  lives — let  us  not  waste  them  in  mourning  over 
blighted  hopes  and  severed  hearts — let  us  snatch  what  happiness 
is  yet  in  our  power,  nor  anticipate,  while  the  heavens  are  still 
bright  above  us,  the  burden  of  the  thunder  or  the  cloud." 

Isabel  was  one  of  the  least  selfish  and  most  devoted  of  human 
beings,  yet  she  must  be  forgiven  if  at  that  moment  her  resolu- 
tion faltered,  and  the  overpowering  thought  of  being  in  reali- 
ty his  forever  flashed  upon  her  mind.  It  passed  from  her  the 
moment  it  was  formed,  and  rising  from  a  situation  in  which  the 
touch  of  tliat  dear  hand,  and  the  breath  of  those  wooing  lips 
endangered  the  virtue,  and  weakened  the  strength,  of  her  re- 
solves, she  withdrew  herself  from  his  grasp,  and  while  she  averted 


6o  tHE   DISOWNED. 

her  eyes,  which  dared  not  encounter  his,  she  said  in  a  low  but 
firm  voice : 

"It  is  in  vain,  Algernon;  it  is  in  vain.  I  can  be  to  you  noth- 
ing but  a  blight  or  burthen,  nothing  but  a  source  of  privation 
and  anguish.  Think  you  that  I  zvi//  be  this  ? — no,  I  will  not 
darken  your  fair  hopes,  and  impede  your  reasonable  ambition. 
Go  (and  here  her  voice  faltered  for  a  moment,  but  soon  re- 
covered its  tone),  go  Algernon,  dear  Algernon  ;  and,  if  my  fool- 
ish heart  will  not  ask  you  to  think  of  me  no  more,  I  can  at  least 
implore  you  to  think  of  me  only  as  one  who  would  die  rather 
than  cost  you  a  moment  of  that  poverty  and  debasement,  the 
bitterness  of  which  she  has  felt  herself,  and  who,  for  that  very 
reason,  tears  herself  away  from  you  forever." 

"  Stay,  Isabel,  stay  !  "  cried  Mordaunt,  as  he  caught  hold  of 
her  robe,  "give  me  but  one  word  more,  and  you  shall  leave  me. 
Say  that  if  I  can  create  for  myself  a  new  source  of  indepen- 
dence ;  if  I  can  carve  out  a  road  where  the  ambition  you  erro- 
neously impute  to  me  can  be  gratified,  as  well  as  the  more 
moderate  wishes  our  station  has  made  natural  to  us  to  form — 
say  that  if  I  do  this  I  may  permit  myself  to  hope^say,  that 
w/ien  I  have  done  it,  I  may  claim  you  as  my  ovvn  ! " 

Isabel  paused,  and  turned  once  more  her  face  towards  his 
own.  Her  lips  moved,  and  though  the  words  died  within  her 
heart,  yet  Mordaunt  read  well  tlieir  import  in  the  blushing  cheek 
and  the  heaving  bosom,  and  the  lips  which  one  ray  of  hope  and 
comfort  was  sufficient  to  kindle  into  smiles.  He  gazed,  and  all 
obstacles,  all  difficuhies,  disappeared  ;  the  gulf  of  time  seemed 
past,  and  he  felt  as  if  already  he  had  earned  and  won  his  reward. 

He  approached  her  yet  nearer  ;  one  kiss  on  those  lips,  one 
pressure  of  that  thrilling  hand,  one  long,  last  embrace  of  that 
shrinking  and  trembling  form — and  then,  as  the  door  closed 
upon  his  view,  he  felt  that  the  sunshine  of  nature  had  passed 
away,  and  that  in  the  midst  of  the  laughing  and  peopled  earth 
Ae  stood  in  darkness  and  alone. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

*'He  who  would  know  mankind  must  be  at  home  with  all  men." — Stephen 

Montague. 

We  left  Clarence  safely  deposited  in  his  little  lodgings. 
Whether  from  the  heat  of  his  aj^artments  or  the  restlessness  a 
migration  of  beds  produces  in  certain  constitutions,  his  slum- 
^^xs  on  the  first  night  of  his  arrival  were  disturbed  and  brief, 


THE   DISOWNED.  6 1 

He  rose  early  and  descended  to  the  parlor ;  Mr.  de  AVarens, 
the  nobly  appellatived  foot-bo)%  was  laying  the  breakfast  clolh. 
From  three  painted  shelves  which  constituted  the  library  of 
"Copperas  Bower,"  as  its  owners  gracefully  called  their  habita- 
tion, Clarence  took  down  a  book  very  prettily  bound  ;  it  was 
"Poems  by  a  Nobleman."  No  sooner  had  he  read  two  pages 
than  he  did  exactly  what  the  reader  would  have  done,  and  re- 
stored the  volume  respectfully  to  its  place.  He  then  drew  his 
chair  towards  the  window,  and  wistfully  eyed  sundry  ancient 
nursery  maids,  who  were  leading  their  infant  charges  to  the 
"  fresh  fields,  and  pastures  new,"  of  what  is  now  the  Regent's 
Park. 

In  about  an  hour,  Mrs.  Copperas  descended,  and  mutual 
compliments  were  exchanged  ;  to  her  succeeded  Mr.  Copperas, 
who  was  well  scolded  for  his  laziness :  and  to  them.  Master 
Adolphus  Copperas,  who  was  also  chidingly  termed  a  naughty 
darling,  for  the  same  offence.  Now  then  Mrs.  Copperas  pre- 
pared the  tea,  which  she  did  in  the  approved  method,  adopted 
by  all  ladies  to  whom  economy  is  dearer  than  renown — viz.,  the 
least  possible  quantity  of  the  soi-disant  Chinese  plant  was  first 
sprinkled  by  the  least  possible  quantity  of  hot  water !  after  this 
mixture  had  become  as  black  and  as  bitter  as  it  could  possibly  be, 
without  any  adjunct  from  the  apothecary's  skill,  it  was  suddenly 
drenched  with  a  copious  diffusion,  and  as  suddenly  poured  forth, 
weak,  washy,  and  abominable,  into  four  cups,  severally  apper- 
taining unto  the  four  partakers  of  the  matutinal  nectar. 

Then  the  conversation  began  to  flow.  Mrs.  Copperas  was  a 
fine  lady,  and  a  sentimentalist — very  observant  of  the  little 
niceties  of  phrase  and  manner.  Mr.  Copperas  was  a  stock- 
jobber, and  a  wit,  loved  a  good  hit  in  each  capacity,  was  very 
round,  very  short,  and  very  much  like  a  John  Dory,  and  saw  in 
the  features  and  mind  of  the  little  Copperas,  the  exact  repre- 
sentative of  himself. 

"Adolphus,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Copperas,  "mind  what  I 
told  you  and  sit  upright.  Mr.  Linden,  will  you  allow  me  to  cut 
you  a  leeile  piece  of  this  roll  ? " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Clarence,  "  I  will  trouble  you  rather  for 
the  whole  of  it." 

Conceive  Mrs.  Copperas's  dismay  !  from  that  moment  she  saw 
herself  eaten  out  of  liouse  and  home  ;  besides,  as  she  afterwards 
observed  to  her  friend  Miss  Barbara  York,  the  "vulgarity  of 
such  an  amazing  appetite  !  " 

t.  i."Any  commands  in  the  city,  Mr.  Linden  ?"  asked  the  hus- 
band ;  "a  coach  will  pass  by  our  door  in  a  few  minutes — must 


6i  THE   DISOWNED. 

be  on  'Change  in  half  an  hour.  Come,  my  love,  another  cup  of 
tea— make  haste — I  have  scarcely  a  moment  to  take  my  fare  for 
the  inside,  before  coachee  takes  his  for  the  outside.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  Mr.  Linden." 

"  Lord,  Mr.  Copperas,"  said  his  helpmate,  "  how  can  you  be 
so  silly?  setting  such  an  example  to  your  son,  too — never  mind 
him,  Adolphus,  my  love — fie,  child,  a'n't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self ? — never  put  the  spoon  in  your  cup  till  you  have  done  tea  : 
I  must  really  send  you  to  school,  to  learn  manners. — We  have 
a  very  pretty  little  collection  of  books  here  Mr.  Linden,  if  you 
would  like  to  read  an  hour  or  two  after  breakfast — child,  take 
your  hands  out  of  your  pockets — all  the  best  English  classics, 
I  believe — Telemachus,  and  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  and 
Joseph  Andrews,  and  the  Spectator,  and  Pope's  Iliad,  and 
Creech's  Lucretius ;  but  you  will  look  over  them  yourself  ! 
This  is  Liberty  Hall,  as  well  as  Copperas  Bower,  Mr.  Linden  !" 

"  Well,  my  love,"  said  the  stock-jobber,  "  I  believe  I  must  be 
off.  Here  Tom — Tom — (Mr.  de  Warens  had  just  entered  the 
room  with  some  more  hot  water,  to  weaken  still  farther  "  the 
poor  remains  of  what  was  once" — the  tea!) — Tom,  just  run 
out  and  stop  the  coach,  it  will  be  by  in  five  minutes." 

"  Have  not  I  prayed,  and  besought  you,  many  and  many  a 
time,  Mr.  Copperas,"  said  the  lady,  rebukingly,  "not  to  call 
De  Warens  by  his  Christian  name?  Don't  you  know,  that  all 
people  in  genteel  life,  who  only  keep  one  servant,  invariably 
call  him  by  his  surname,  as  if  he  were  the  butler,  you  know  ?" 

"Now,  that  is  too  good,  my  love,"  said  Copperas.  "I  will 
call  poor  Tom  by  any  surname  you  please,  but  I  really  can't 
pass  him  off  for  a  butler!  Ha — ha — ha — you  must  excuse  me 
there,  my  love  !  " 

"  And  pray,  why  not,  Mr.  Copperas !  I  have  known  many  a 
butler  bungle  more  at  a  cork  than  he  does ;  and  pray  tell  me, 
who  did  you  ever  see  wait  better  at  dinner?" 

"He  wait  at  dinner,  my  love  !  it  is  not  he  who  waits." 

"Who  then,  Mr.  Copperas?" 

"Why  we,  my  love — it's  we  who  wait  for  dinner — but  that's 
the  cook's  fault,  not  his." 

"Pshaw,  Mr.  Copperas — Adolphus,  my  love,  sit  upright, 
darling." 

Here  De  Warens  cried  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs : 

"  Measter,  the  coach  be  coming  up." 

"There  won't  be  room  for  it  to  turn  then,"  said  the  facetious 
Mr.  Copperas,  looking  round  the  apartment,  as  if  he  look  the 
words  literally. 


THE    DISOWNED.  6$ 

**  What  coach  is  it,  boy  ? " 

Now  that  was  not  the  age  in  which  coaches  scoured  the  city 
every  half-hour,  and  Mr.  Copperas  knew  the  name  of  the 
coach,  as  well  as  he  knew  his  own. 

"It  be  the  Swallow  coach,  sir." 

"  Oh,  very  well :  then  since  I  have  swallowed  in  the  roll,  I 
will  now  roll  in  the  Swallow — ha — ha — ha  I  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Linden." 

No  sooner  had  the  witty  stock-jobber  left  the  room,  than 
Mrs.  Copperas  seemed  to  expand  into  a  new  existence.  "  My 
husband,  sir,"  said  she,  apologetically,  "  is  so  odd,  but  he's  an 
excellent  sterling  character  ;  and  that,  you  know,  Mr.  Linden, 
tells  more  in  the  bosom  of  a  family  than  all  the  shining  quali- 
ties which  captivate  the  imagination.  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Linden, 
that  the  moralist  is  right  in  admonishing  us  to  prefer  the  gold 
to  the  tinsel.  I  have  now  been  married  some  years,  and  every 
year  seems  happier  than  the  last ;  but  then,  Mr.  Linden,  it  is 
such  a  pleasure  to  contemplate  the  growing  graces  of  the  sweet 
pledge  of  our  mutual  love — Adolphus,  my  dear,  keep  your  feet 
still,  and  take  your  hands  out  of  your  pockets  ! " 

A  short  pause  ensued. 

"  We  see  a  great  deal  of  company,"  said  Mrs.  Copperas 
pompously,  "and  of  the  very  best  description.  Sometimes  we 
are  favored  by  the  society  of  the  great  Mr.  Talbot,  a  gentleman 
of  immense  fortune,  and  quite  the  courtier  :  he  is,  it  is  true,  a 
little  eccentric  in  his  dress  ;  but  then  he  was  a  celebrated  beau 
in  his  young  days.  He  is  our  next  neighbor  ;  you  can  see  his 
house  out  of  the  window,  just  across  the  garden — there  !  We 
have  also,  sometimes,  our  humble  board  graced  by  a  very  ele- 
gant friend  of  mine.  Miss  Barbara  York,  a  lady  of  very  high 
connections,  her  first  cousin  was  a  lord  mayor — Adolphus,  my 
dear,  what  are  you  about  ? — Well,  Mr.  Linden,  you  will  find 
your  retreat  quite  undisturbed  ;  I  must  go  about  the  household 
affairs ;  not  that  I  do  anytliing  more  than  superintend,  you 
know,  sir  ;  but  I  think  no  lady  should  be  above  consulting  her 
husband's  interests — that's  what  I  call  true  old  English  con- 
jugal affection. — Come  Adolphus,  my  dear." 

And  Clarence  was  now  alone.  "I  fear,"  thought  he,  "that 
I  shall  get  on  very  indifferently  with  these  people.  But  it  will 
not  do  for  me  to  be  misanthropical,  and  (as  Dr.  Latinas  was 
wont  to  say)  the  great  merit  of  philosophy,  when  we  cannot 
(ommand  circumstances,  is  to  reconcile  us  to  them." 


64  THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


"  A  retired  beau  is  one  of  the  most  instructive  spectacles  in  the  world." 

— Stephen  Montague. 

It  was  quite  true  that  Mrs.  Copperas  saw  a  great  deal  of 
company,  tor  at  a  certain  charge,  upon  certain  days,  any  indi- 
vidual might  have  the  honor  of  sharing  her  family  repast ;  and 
many,  of  various  callings,  though  chiefly  in  commercial  life, 
met  at  her  miscellaneous  board.  Clarence  must,  indeed,  have 
been  difficult  to  please,  or  obtuse  of  observation,  if,  in  the 
variety  of  her  guests,  he  had  not  found  something  either  to 
interest  or  amuse  him.  Heavens  !  what  a  motley  group  were 
accustomed,  twice  in  the  week,  to  assemble  there  !  the  little 
dining  parlor  seemed  a  human  oven ;  and  it  must  be  owned 
that  Clarence  was  no  slight  magnet  of  attraction  to  the  female 
part  of  the  guests.  Mrs.  Copperas's  bosom  friend  in  especial, 
the  accomplished  Miss  Barbara  York,  darted  the  most  tender 
glances  on  the  handsome  young  stranger ;  but  whether  or  not 
a  nose  remarkably  prominent  and  long  prevented  the  glances 
from  taking  full  effect,  it  is  certain  that  Clarence  seldom  repaid 
them  with  that  affectionate  ardor  which  Miss  Barbara  York  had 
ventured  to  anticipate.  The  only  persons  indeed  for  whom  he 
felt  any  sympathetic  attraction,  were  of  the  same  sex  as  himself. 
The  one  was  Mr.  Talbot,  the  old  gentleman  whom  Mrs.  Cop- 
peras had  described  as  the  perfect  courtier  ;  the  other,  a  young 
artist  of  the  name  of  Warner.  Talbot,  to  Clarence's  great 
astonishment  (for  Mrs.  Copperas's  eulogy  had  prepared  him  for 
something  eminently  displeasing),  was  a  man  of  birth,  fortune, 
and  manners  peculiarly  graceful  and  attractive.  It  is  true, 
however,  that,  despite  of  his  vicinity,  and  Mrs.  Copperas's 
urgent  solicitations,  he  very  seldom  honored  her  with  his  com- 
pany, and  he  always  cautiously  sent  over  liis  servant  in  the 
morning  to  inquire  the  names  and  number  of  her  expected 
guests  :  nor  was  he  ever  known  to  share  the  plenteous  board 
of  the  stock-jobber's  lady  whenever  any  other  partaker  of  its 
dainties,  save  Clarence  and  the  young  artist,  were  present. 
The  latter,  the  old  gentleman  really  liked  :  and  as,  for  one  truly 
well  born,  and  well  bred,  there  is  no  vulgarity  except  in  the 
mind,  the  slender  means,  obscure  birth,  and  struggling  pro- 
fession of  Warner  were  circumstances  which,  as  they  increased 
the  merit  of  a  gentle  manner  and  a  fine  mind,  spoke  rather  in 
his  favor  than  the  reverse.  Mr.  Talbot  was  greatly  struck  by 
CUr^nge  Linden's  gonversation  and  appearance  ;  and,  indeed, 


THE    DISOWNED.  65 

there  was  in  Talbot's  tastes  so  strong  a  bias  to  aristocratic 
externals,  that  Clarence's  air  alone  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  win  the  good  graces  of  a  man  who  had,  perhaps,  more  than 
most  courtiers  of  his  time,  cultivated  the  arts  of  manner  and 
the  secrets  of  address. 

"  You  will  call  upon  me  soon  ?  "  said  he  to  Clarence,  when, 
after  dining  one  day  with  the  Copperases  and  their  inmate,  he 
rose  to  return  home.  And  Clarence,  delighted  with  the  urban- 
ity and  liveliness  of  his  new  acquaintance,  readily  promised  that 
he  would. 

Accordingly,  the  next  day,  Clarence  called  upon  Mr.  Talbot. 
The  house,  as  Mrs.  Copperas  had  before  said,  adjoined  her  own, 
and  was  only  separated  from  it  by  a  garden.  It  was  a  dull  man- 
sion of  brick,  which  had  disdained  the  frippery  of  paint  and  white- 
washing and  had  indeed  been  built  many  years  previously  to  the 
erection  of  the  modern  habitations  which  surrounded  it.  It  was, 
therefore,  as  a  consequence  of  this  priority  of  birth,  more  sombre 
than  the  rest,  and  had  a  peculiarly  forlorn  and  solitary  look. 
As  Clarence  approached  the  door,  he  was  struck  with  the  size 
of  the  house — it  was  of  very  considerable  extent,  and  in  the 
more  favorable  situations  of  London  would  have  passed  for  a 
very  desirable  and  spacious  tenement.  An  old  man,  whose 
accurate  precision  of  dress  bespoke  the  tastes  of  the  master, 
opened  the  door,  and  after  ushering  Clarence  through  two  long, 
and,  to  his  surprise,  almost  splendidly  furnished  rooms,  led  him 
into  a  third,  where,  seated  at  a  small  writing-table,  he  found 
Mr.  Talbot.  That  person,  one  whom  Clarence  then  little 
thought  would  hereafter  exercise  no  small  influence  over  his 
fate,  was  of  a  figure  and  countenance  well  worthy  the  notice  of 
a  description. 

His  own  hair,  quite  white,  was  carefully  and  artificially  curled, 
and  gave  a  Grecian  cast  to  features  whose  original  delicacy  and 
exact,  though  small  proportions,  not  even  age  could  destroy.  His 
eyes  were  large,  black,  and  sparkled  with  almost  youthful  vivacity ; 
and  his  mouth,  which  was  the  best  feature  he  possessed,  devel- 
oped teeth  white  and  even  as  rows  of  ivory.  Though  small 
and  somewhat  too  slender  in  the  proportions  of  his  figure, 
nothing  could  exceed  the  ease  and  the  grace  of  his  motions  and 
air ;  and  his  dress,  though  singularly  rich  in  its  materials,  eccentric 
in  its  fashion,  and,  from  its  evident  study,  unseemly  to  his  years, 
served  nevertheless  to  render  rather  venerable  than  ridiculous  a 
mien  which  could  almost  have  carried  off  any  absurdity,  and 
which  the  fashion  of  the  garb  peculiarly  became.  The  tout  en- 
semble was  certainly  that  of  a  man  who  was  still  vain  of  hi§ 


66  THE    DISOWNED. 

exterior,  and  conscious  of  its  effect ;  and  it  was  as  certainly  im- 
possible to  converse  with  Mr.  Talbot  for  five  minutes,  without 
merging  every  less  respectful  impression  in  the  magical  fascina- 
tion of  his  manner. 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Linden,"  said  Talbot,  rising,  "  for  your 
accepting  so  readily  an  old  man's  invitation.  If  I  have  felt 
pleasure  in  discovering  that  we  were  to  be  neighbors,  you  may 
judge  what  that  pleasure  is  to-day  at  finding  you  my  visitor." 

Clarence,  who,  to  do  him  justice,  was  always  ready  at  return- 
ing a  fine  speech,  replied  in  a  similar  strain,  and  the  conversa- 
tion flowed  on  agreeably  enough.  There  was  more  than  a 
moderate  collection  of  books  in  the  room,  and  this  circumstance 
led  Clarence  to  allude  to  literary  subjects  ;  these  Mr.  Talbot 
took  up  with  avidity,  and  touched  with  a  light  but  graceful 
criticism  upon  many  of  the  then  modern,  and  some  of  the  older, 
writers.  He  seemed  delighted  to  find  himself  understood  and 
appreciated  by  Clarence,  and  every  moment  of  Linden's  visit 
served  to  ripen  their  acquaintance  into  intimacy.  At  length 
they  talked  upon  Copperas  Bower  and   its  inmates. 

"  You  will  find  your  host  and  hostess,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, "  certainly  of  a  different  order  from  the  persons  with 
whom  it  is  easy  to  see  you  have  associated  ;  but,  at  your  happy 
age,  a  year  or  two  may  be  very  well  thrown  away  upon  observ- 
ing the  manners  and  customs  of  those  whom,  in  later  life,  you 
may  often  be  called  upon  to  conciliate,  or  perhaps  to  control. 
That  man  will  never  be  a  perfect  gentleman  who  lives  only  with 
gentlemen.  To  be  a  man  of  the  world,  we  must  view  that  world  in 
every  grade,  and  in  every  perspective.  In  short,  the  most  practical 
art  of  wisdom,  is  that  which  extracts  from  things  the  very  quality 
they  least  appear  to  possess  ;  and  the  actor  in  the  world,  like  the 
actor  on  the  stage,  should  find  '  a  basket-hilted  sword  very  con- 
venient to  carry  milk  in.'  *  As  for  me,  1  have  survived  my  rela- 
tions and  friends.  I  cannot  keep  late  hours,  nor  adhere  to  the  un- 
healthy customs  of  good  society  ;  nor  do  I  think  that,  to  a  man 
of  my  age  and  habits,  any  remuneration  would  adequately  repay 
the  sacrifice  of  health  or  comfort.  I  am,  therefore,  well  content 
to  sink  into  a  hermitage  in  an  obscure  corner  of  this  great  town, 
and  only  occasionally  to  revive  my  'past  remembrances  of  higher 
state,'  by  admitting  a  few  old  acquaintances  to  drink  my  bachelor's 
tea  and  talk  over  the  news  of  the  day.  Hence,  you  see,  Mr.  Lin- 
den, I  pick  up  two  or  three  novel  anecdotes  of  state  and  scandal, 
and  maintain  my  importance  at  Copperas  Bower,  by  retailing 
them  second  hand.     Now  that  you  are  one  of  the  inmates  of  that 

♦  See  the  witty  inventory  of  a  player's  goods  in  the  Tatkr. 


•THfe  DlSOWNEp.  67 

abode,  I  shall  be  more  frequently  its  guest.  By-the-by,  I  will 
let  you  into  a  secret :  know  that  I  am  somewhat  a  lover  of  the 
marvellous,  and  like  to  indulge  a  little  embellishing  exaggeration 
in  anyplace  where  there  is  no  chance  of  finding  me  out.  Mind, 
therefore,  my  dear  Mr.  Linden,  that  you  take  no  ungenerous 
advantage  of  this  confession  ;  but  suffer  me,  now  and  then,  to 
tell  my  stories  my  own  way,  even  when  you  think  truth  would 
require  me  to  tell  them  in  another." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Clarence,  laughing ;  "  let  us  make  an 
agreement  :  you  shall  tell  your  stories  as  you  please,  if  you  will 
grant  me  the  same  liberty  in  paying  my  compliments  :  and  if  I 
laugh  aloud  at  the  stories,  you  shall  promise  me  not  to  laugh 
aloud  at  the  compliments." 

"  It  is  a  bond,"  said  Talbot  ;  "  and  a  very  fit  exchange  of 
service  it  is.  It  will  be  a  problem  in  human  nature  to  see  who 
has  the  best  of  it  :  you  shall  pay  your  court  by  flattering  the 
people  present,  and  I  mine,  by  abusing  those  absent.  Now,  in 
spite  of  your  youth  and  curling  locks,  I  will  wager  that  I  suC' 
ceed  the  best ;  for  in  vanity  tliere  is  so  great  a  mixture  of  envy 
that  no  compliment  is  like  a  judicious  abuse — to  enchant  your 
acquaintance,  ridicule  his  friends." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  "  this  opinion  of  yours  is,  I  trust,  a 
little  in  the  French  school,  where  brilliancy  is  more  studied  than 
truth,  and  where  an  ill  opinion  of  our  species  always  has  the 
merit  of  passing  for  profound." 

Talbot  smiled,  and  shook  his  head.  "  My  dear  young  friend," 
said  he,  "it  is  quite  right  that  you,  who  are  coming  into  the 
world,  should  think  well  of  it ;  and  it  is  also  quite  right  that  I, 
who  am  going  out  of  it,  should  console  myself  by  trying  to  des- 
pise it.  However,  let  me  tell  you,  my  young  friend,  that  he 
whose  opinion  of  mankind  is  not  too  elevated  will  always  be  the 
most  benevolent,  because  the  most  indulgent,  to  those  errors 
incidental  to  human  imperfection  :  to  place  our  nature  in  too 
flattering  a  view  is  only  to  court  disappointment,  and  end  in 
misanthropy.  The  man  who  sets  out  with  expecting  to  find 
all  his  fellow-creatures  heroes  of  virtue,  will  conclude  by  con- 
demning them  as  monsters  of  vice  ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  the 
least  exacting  judge  of  actions  will  be  the  most  lenient.  If  God, 
in  his  own  perfection,  did  not  see  so  many  frailties  in  us,  think 
you  he  would  be  so  gracious  to  our  virtues?" 

"  And  yet,"  said  Clarence.  "  we  remark,  every  day,  examples 
of  the  highest  excellence." 

"Yes,"  replied  Talbot,  "of  the  highest,  but  not  of  the  most 
constant,  excellence.     He  knows  very  little  of  the  human  heart 


68  THE   DISOWNED. 

who  imagines  we  cannot  do  a  good  action  ;  but,  alas  !  he  knows 
still  less  of  it  who  supposes  we  can  be  always  doing  good  ac- 
tions. In  exactly  the  same  ratio  we  see  every  day  the  greatest 
crimes  are  committed  ;  but  we  find  no  wretch  so  depraved  as 
to  be  always  committing  crimes.  Man  cannot  be  perfect  even 
in  guilt." 

In  this  manner  Talbot  and  his  young  visitor  conversed,  till 
Clarence,  after  a  stay  of  unwarrantable  length,  rose  to  depart. 

"  Well,"  said  Talbot,  **  if  we  now  rightly  understand  each 
other,  we  shall  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  As  we  shall 
expect  great  things  from  each  other  sometimes,  we  will  have  no 
scruple  in  exacting  a  heroic  sacrifice  every  now  and  then  ;  for 
instance — I  will  ask  you  to  punish  yourself  by  an  occasional 
tete-a-tete  with  an  ancient  gentleman  ;  and,  as  we  can  also,  by 
the  same  reasoning,  pardon  great  faults  in  each  other,  if  they 
are  not  often  committed,  so  I  will  forgive  you,  with  all  my  heart, 
whenever  you  refuse  my  invitations,  if  you  do  not  refuse  them 
often.     And  now  farewell  till  we  meet  again." 

It  seemed  singular,  and  almost  unnatural  to  Linden,  that  a 
man  like  Talbot,  of  birth,  fortune,  and  great  fastidiousness  of 
taste  and  temper,  should  have  formed  any  sort  of  acquaintance, 
however  slight  and  distant,  with  the  facetious  stock-jobber  and 
his  wife ;  but  the  fact  is  easily  explained  by  a  reference  to  the 
vanity  which  we  shall  see  hereafter  made  the  ruling  passion  of 
Talbot's  nature.  This  vanity,  which,  branching  forth  into  a 
thousand  eccentricities,  displayed  itself  in  the  singularity  of  his 
dress,  the  studied  yet  graceful  warmth  of  his  manner,  his  at- 
tention to  the  minutiae  of  life,  his  desire,  craving  and  insatiate, 
to  receive  from  every  one,  however  insignificant,  his  obolum  of 
admiration — this  vanity,  once  flattered  by  the  obsequious  hom- 
age it  obtained  from  the  wonder  and  reverence  of  the  Cop- 
perases, reconciled  his  taste  to  the  disgust  it  so  frequently  and 
necessarily  conceived  ;  and,  having  in  great  measure  resigned 
his  former  acquaintance,  and  wholly  outlived  his  friends,  he 
was  contented  to  purchase  the  applause  which  had  become  to 
him  a  necessary  of  life,  at  the  humble  market  more  immediate- 
ly at  his  command. 

There  is  no  dilemma  in  which  Vanity  cannot  find  an  expe- 
dient to  develop  its  form — no  stream  of  circumstances  in 
which  its  buoyant  and  light  nature  will  not  rise  to  float  upon 
the  surface.  And  its  ingenuity  is  as  fertile  as  that  of  the  player 
who  (his  wardrobe  allowing  him  no  other  method  of  playing  the 
fop)  could  still  exhibit  the  prevalent  passion  for  distinction  by 
wearin<^  stockings  of  different  colors. 


THE   DISOWNED.  169 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

"Who  dares 
Interpret  then  my  life  for  me,  as  'twere 
One  of  the  undistinguishable  many  ?  " — Coleridge's  Wallenstein. 

The  first  time  Clarence  had  observed  the  young  artist,  he  had 
taken  a  deep  interest  in  his  appearance.  Pale,  thin,  undersized, 
and  slightly  deformed,  the  sanctifying  mind  still  shed  over  the 
humble  frame  a  spell  more  powerful  than  beauty.  Absent  in 
manner,  melancholy  in  air,  and  never  conversing  except  upon 
subjects  upon  which  his  imagination  was  excited,  there  was  yet 
a  gentleness  about  him  which  could  not  fail  to  conciliate  and 
prepossess  ;  nor  did  Clarence  omit  any  opportunity  to  soften 
his  reserve,  and  wind  himself  into  his  more  intimate  acquain- 
tance. Warner,  the  only  support  of  an  aged  and  infirm  grand- 
mother (who  had  survived  her  immediate  children),  was  distant- 
ly related  to  Mrs  Copperas  ;  and  that  lady  extended  to  him, 
with  ostentatious  benevolence,  her  favor  and  support.  It  is 
true,  that  she  did  not  impoverish  the  young  Adolphus  to  enrich 
her  kinsman,  but  she  allowed  him  a  seat  at  her  hospitable 
board,  whenever  it  was  not  otherwise  filled  ;  and  all  that  she 
demanded  in  return  was  a  picture  of  herself,  another  of  Mr. 
Copperas,  a  third  of  Master  Adolphus,  a  fourth  of  the  black  cat, 
and  from  time  to  time  sundry  other  lesser  productions  of  his 
genius,  of  which,  through  the  agency  of  Mr.  Brown,  she  secretly 
disposed  at  a  price  that  sufficiently  remunerated  her  for  what- 
ever havoc  the  slender  appetite  of  the  young  painter  was  able 
to  effect. 

By  this  arrangement,  Clarence  had  many  opportunities  of 
gaining  that  intimacy  with  Warner  which  had  become  to  him  an 
object ;  and  though  the  painter,  constitutionally  diffident  and 
shy,  was  at  first  averse  to,  and  even  awed  by,  the  ease,  boldness, 
fluent  speech,  and  confident  address  of  a  man  much  younger 
than  himself,  yet  at  last  he  could  not  resist  the  being  decoyed 
into  familiarity  ;  and  the  youthful  pair  gradually  advanced 
from  companionship  into  friendship.  There  was  a  striking  con- 
trast between  the  two ;  Clarence  was  bold  and  frank,  Warner 
close  and  timid.  Both  had  superior  abilities — but  the  abilities 
of  Clarence  were  for  action,  those  of  Warner  for  art :  both  were 
ambitious,  but  the  ambition  of  Clarence  was  that  of  circum- 
stances rather  than  character  ;  compelled  to  carve  his  own 
fortunes  without  sympathy  or  aid,  he  braced  his  mind  to  the 
effort,  though  naturally  too  gay  for  the  austerity,  and  too  gen- 


70  THE  DISOWNED. 

ial  for  the  selfishness  of  ambition.  But  the  very  essence  of 
Warner's  nature  was  the  feverish  desire  of  fame  ;  it  poured 
through  his  veins  like  lava  ;  it  preyed  as  a  worm  upon  his  cheek; 
it  corroded  his  natural  sleep  ;  it  blackened  the  color  of  his 
thoughts;  it  shut  out,  as  with  an  impenetrable  wall,  the  whole- 
some energies  and  enjoyments  and  objects  of  living  men  ;  and, 
taking  from  him  all  the  vividness  of  the  present,  all  the  tender- 
ness of  the  past,  constrained  his  heart  to  dwell  forever  and  for- 
ever amidst  the  dim  and  shadowy  chimeras  of  a  future  he  was 
fated  never  to  enjoy. 

But  these  differences  of  character,  so  far  from  disturbing, 
rather  cemented  their  friendship  ;  and  while  Warner  (notwith- 
standing his  advantage  of  age)  paid  involuntary  deference  to 
the  stronger  character  of  Clarence,  he,  in  his  turn,  derived  that 
species  of  pleasure  by  which  he  was  most  gratified,  from  the 
affectionate  and  unenvious  interest  Clarence  took  in  his  specu- 
lations of  future  distinction,  and  the  unwearying  admiration 
with  which  he  would  sit  by  his  side,  and  watch  the  colors  start 
from  the  canvas,  beneath  the  real,  though  uncultured,  genius 
of  the  youthful  painter.  Hitherto,  Warner  had  bounded  his 
attempts  to  some  of  the  lesser  efforts  of  the  art ;  he  had  now 
yielded  to  the  urgent  enthusiasm  of  his  nature,  and  conceived 
the  plan  of  an  historical  picture.  Oh  !  what  sleepless  nights, 
what  struggles  of  the  teeming  fancy  with  the  dense  brain,  what 
labors  of  the  untiring  thought,  wearing  and  intense  as  disease 
itself,  did  it  cost  the  ambitious  artist  to  work  out  in  the  stillness 
of  his  soul,  and  from  its  confused  and  conflicting  images,  the 
design  of  this  long  meditated  and  idolized  performance.  But 
when  it  was  designed  ;  when  shape  upon  shape  grew  and 
swelled,  and  glowed  from  the  darkness  of  previous  thought 
upon  the  painter's  mind  ;  when,  shutting  his  eyes  in  the  very 
credulity  of  delight,  the  whole  work  arose  before  him,  glossy 
with  its  fresh  hues,  bright,  completed,  faultless,  arrayed,  as  it 
were,  and  decked  out  for  immortality — oh  !  then  what  a  full 
and  gushing  moment  of  rapture  broke  like  a  released  stream 
upon  his  soul !  What  a  recompense  for  wasted  years,  health, 
and  hope  !  What  a  coronal  to  the  visions  and  transports  of 
Genius  ;  brief,  it  is  true,  but  how  steeped  in  the  very  halo  of  a 
light  that  might  well  be  deemed  the  glory  of  heaven  ! 

But  the  vision  fades,  the  gorgeous  shapes  sweep  on  into 
darkness,  and,  waking  from  his  reverie,  the  artist  sees  before 
him  only  the  dull  walls  of  his  narrow  chamber ;  the  canvas 
stretched  a  blank  upon  its  frame;  the  works,  maimed,  crude, 
unfinished,  of  an  inexperienced   hand,  lying  idly  around  ;  and 


THE   DISOWNED.  ft 

feels  himself — himself,  but  one  moment  before  the  creator  of  a 
world  of  wonders,  the  master  spirit  of  shapes  glorious  and 
majestical  beyond  the  shapes  of  men — dashed  down  from  his 
momentary  height,  and  despoiled  both  of  his  sorcery  and  his 
throne. 

It  was  just  in  such  a  moment  that  Warner,  starting  up,  saw 
Linden  (who  had  silently  entered  his  room)  standing  motion- 
less before  him. 

"Oh,  Linden!"  said  the  artist,  "I  have  had  so  superb  a 
dream — a  dream  which,  though  I  have  before  snatched  some 
such  vision  by  fits  and  glimpses,  I  never  beheld  so  realized,  so 
perfect  as  now ;  and — but  you  shall  see,  you  shall  judge  for 
yourself;  I  will  sketch  out  the  design  for  you";  and  with  a 
piece  of  chalk,  and  a  rapid  hand,  Warner  conveyed  to  Linden 
the  outline  of  his  conception.  His  young  friend  was  eager  in 
his  praise  and  his  predictions  of  renown,  and  Warner  listened 
to  him  with  a  fondness,  which  spread  over  his  pale  cheek  a 
richer  flush  than  lover  ever  caught  from  the  whispers  of  his 
beloved. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  as  he  rose,  and  his  sunken  and  small  eye 
flashed  out  with  a  feverish  brightness,  "yes,  if  my  hand  does 
not  fail  my  thought,  it  shall  rival  even — "  Here  the  young 
painter  stopped  short,  abashed  at  that  indiscretion  of  enthu- 
siasm about  to  utter  to  another  the  hoarded  vanities  hitherto 
locked  in  his  heart  of  hearts  as  a  sealed  secret,  almost  from 
himself. 

"But  come,"  said  Clarence  affectionately,  "your  hand  is 
feverish  and  dry,  and  of  late  you  have  seemed  more  languid  than 
you  were  wont — come,  Warner,  you  want  exercise  :  it  is  a 
beautiful  evening,  and  you  shall  explain  your  picture  still  farther 
to  me  as  we  walk." 

Accustomed  to  yield  to  Clarence,  Warner  mechanically  and 
abstractedly  obeyed  ;  they  walked  out  into  the  open  streets. 

"Look  around  us,"  said  Warner,  pausing,  "look  among  this 
toiling,  and  busy,  and  sordid  mass  of  beings,  who  claim  with  us 
the  fellowship  of  clay.  The  poor  labor,  the  rich  feast ;  the  only 
distinction  between  them  is  that  of  the  insect  and  the  brute  ; 
like  them  they  fulfil  the  same  end,  and  share  the  same  oblivion  ; 
they  die,  a  new  race  springs  up,  and  the  very  grass  upon  their 
graves  fades  not  so  soon  as  their  memory.  Who,  that  is  con- 
scious of  a  higher  nature,  would  not  pine  and  fret  himself  away 
to  be  confounded  with  these  ?  Who  would  not  burn,  and 
sicken,  and  parch,  with  a  delirious  longing  to  divorce  himself 
from  so  vile  a  herd  ?     What  have  their  petty  pleasures,  and 


-'J2  THE    DISOWNED. 

their  mean  aims  to  atone  for  the  abasement  of  grinding  down 
our  spirits  to  their  level  ?  Is  not  the  distinction  from  their 
blended  and  common  name  a  sufificient  recompense  for  all  that 
ambition  suffers  or  foregoes  ?  Oh,  for  one  brief  hour  (I  ask  no 
more)  of  living  honor,  one  feeling  of  conscious,  unfearing  cer- 
tainty, that  Fame  has  conquered  Death  ;  and  then  for  this 
humble  and  impotent  clay,  this  drag  on  the  spirit  which  it  does 
not  assist  but  fetter,  this  wretched  machine  of  pains  and  aches, 
and  feverish  throbbings,  and  vexed  inquietudes,  why,  let  the 
worms  consume  it,  and  the  grave  hide — for  Fame  there  is  no 
grave." 

At  that  moment  one  of  those  unfortunate  women,  who  earn 
their  polluted  sustenance  by  becoming  the  hypocrites  of  pas- 
sion, abruptly  accosted  them. 

"Miserable  wretch  !  "  said  Warner  loathingly,  as  he  pushed 
her  aside  ;  but  Clarence,  with  a  kindlier  feeling,  noticed  that 
her  haggard  cheek  was  wet  with  tears,  and  that  her  frame,  weak 
and  trembling,  could  scarcely  support  itself;  he,  therefore, 
with  that  promptitude  of  charity,  which  gives  ere  it  discrimi- 
nates, put  some  pecuniary  assistance  in  her  hand,  and  joined 
his  comrade. 

"You  would  not  have  spoken  so  tauntingly  to  the  poor  girl 
had  you  remarked  her  distress,"  said  Clarence. 

"  And  why,"  said  Warner  mournfully,  "  why  be  so  cruel  as 
to  prolong,  even  for  a  few  hours,  an  existence  which  mercy 
would  only  seek  to  bring  nearer  to  the  tomb?  That  unfor- 
tunate is  but  one  of  the  herd,  one  of  the  victims  to  pleasures 
which  debase  by  their  progress,  and  ruin  by  their  end.  Yet 
perhaps  she  is  not  worse  than  the  usual  followers  of  love ;  of 
love — that  passion  the  most  worshipped,  yet  the  least  divine, — 
selfish  and  exacting, — drawing  its  aliment  from  destruction, 
and  its  very  nature  from  tears." 

"Nay,"  said  Clarence,  "you  confound  the  two  loves,  the 
Eros  and  the  Anteros,  gods  whom  my  good  tutor  was  wont  so 
sedulously  to  distinguish :  you  surely  do  not  inveigh  thus 
against  all  love?  " 

"I  cry  you  mercy,"  said  Warner,  with  something  of  sarcasm 
in  his  pensiveness  of  tone.  "We  must  not  dispute,  so  I  will 
hold  my  peace  ;  but  make  love  all  you  will,  what  are  the  false 
smiles  of  a  lip  which  a  few  years  can  blight  as  an  autumn  leaf? 
what  the  homage  of  a  heart  as  feeble  and  mortal  as  your  own  ? 
Why,  I  with  a  few  strokes  of  a  little  hair,  and  an  idle  mixture 
of  worthless  colors,  will  create  a  beauty  in  whose  mouth  there 
shall  be  no  hoUowness — in  whose  lip  there  shall  be  no  fading— 


THE    DISOWNED.  73 

there,  in  your  admiration  you  shall  have  no  need  of  flattery, 
and  no  fear  of  falsehood  ;  you  shall  not  be  stung  with  jealousy, 
nor  maddened  with  treachery  ;  nor  watch  with  a  breaking 
heart  over  waning  bloom,  and  departing  health,  till  the  grave 
open,  and  your  perishable  paradise  is  tiot.  No — the  mimic 
work  is  mightier  than  the  original,  for  it  outlasts  it :  your  love 
cannot  wither  it,  or  your  desertion  destroy — your  very  death, 
as  the  being  who  called  it  into  life,  only  stamps  it  with  a  holier 
value." 

"And  so  then,"  said  Clarence,  "  you  would  seriously  relin- 
quish, for  the  mute  copy  of  the  mere  features,  those  affections 
which  no  painting  can  express  ?  " 

"Ay,"  said  the  painter,  with  an  energy  unusual  to  his  quiet 
manner,  and  slightly  wandering  in  his  answer  from  Clarence's 
remark,  "Ay,  one  serves  not  two  mistresses — mine  is  the  glory 
of  my  art.  Oh  !  what  are  the  cold  shapes  of  this  tame  earth, 
where  the  footsteps  of  the  gods  have  vanished,  and  left  no 
trace,  the  blemished  forms,  the  debased  brows,  and  the  jarring 
features,  to  the  glorious  and  gorgeous  images  which  I  can 
conjure  up  at  my  will  ?  Away  with  human  beauties,  to  him 
whose  nights  are  haunted  with  the  forms  of  angels  and  wan- 
derers from  the  stars,  the  spirits  of  all  things  lovely  and 
exalted  in  the  univ^erse  :  the  universe  as  it  was — when  to 
fountain,  and  stream,  and  hill,  and  to  every  tree  which  the 
summer  clothed,  was  allotted  the  vigil  of  a  Nymph  ! — when 
through  glade,  and  by  waterfall,  at  glossy  noontide,  or  under 
the  silver  stars,  the  forms  of  Godhead  and  Spirit  were  seen  to 
walk  ;  when  the  sculptor  modeled  his  mighty  work  from  the 
beauty  and  strength  of  Heaven,  and  the  poet  lay  in  the  shade 
to  dream  of  the  Naiad  and  the  Faun,  and  the  Olympian 
dwellers  whom  he  waked  in  rapture  to  behold  ;  and  the  painter, 
not  as  now,  shaping  from  shadow  and  in  solitude  the  dim  glories 
of  his  heart,  caught  at  once  his  inspiration  from  the  glow  of 
earth  and  its  living  wanderers,  and,  lo,  the  canvas  breathed  ! 
Oh !  what  are  the  dull  realities  and  the  abortive  offspring  of 
this  altered  and  humbled  world — the  world  of  meaner  and 
dwarfish  men — to  him  whose  realms  are  peopled  with  visions 
like  these  ? " 

And  the  artist,  whose  ardor,  long  excited,  and  pent  within, 
had  at  last  thus  audibly,  and  to  Clarence's  astonishment,  burst 
forth,  paused,  as  if  to  recall  himself  from  his  wandering  enthu- 
siasm. Such  moments  of  excitement  were,  indeed,  rare  with 
him,  except  when  utterly  alone,  and  even  then,  were  almost 
invariably  followed  by  that  depression  of  spirit  by  which  all 


>J4  THE   DISOWNED. 

overwrought  susceptibility  is  succeeded.  A  change  came  over 
his  face,  like  that  of  a  cloud  when  the  sunbeam,  which  gilded, 
leaves  it,  and  with  a  slight  sigh,  and  a  subdued  tone,  he  re- 
sumed : 

"  So,  my  friend,  you  see  what  our  art  can  do  even  for  the 
humblest  professor,  when  I,  a  poor,  friendless,  patronless  artist, 
can  thus  indulge  myself  by  forgetting  the  present.  But  I  have 
not  yet  explained  to  you  the  attitude  of  my  principal  figure  "; 
and  Warner  proceeded  once  more  to  detail  the  particulars  of 
his  intended  picture.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  had  chosen 
a  fine,  though  an  arduous,  subject :  it  was  the  Trial  of  Charles 
the  First ;  and  as  the  painter,  with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  pro- 
fession and  the  eloquence  peculiar  to  himself,  dwelt  upon  the 
various  expressions  of  the  various  forms  which  that  extraordinary 
judgment  court  afforded,  no  wonder  that  Clarence  forgot,  with 
the  artist  himself,  the  disadvantages  Warner  had  to  encounter, 
in  the  inexperience  of  an  unregulated  taste,  and  an  imperfect 
professional  education. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

"All  manners  take  a  tincture  from  our  own, 
Or  come  discolored  through  our  passions  shown." — Pope. 

"What!  give  up  liberty,  property,  and,  as  the  Gazetteer  says,  lie  down 
to  be  saddled  with  wooden  shoes  ?  " —  yicar  of  Wakefield. 

There  was  something  in  the  melancholy  and  reflective  char- 
acter of  Warner  resembling  that  of  Mordaunt ;  had  they  lived 
in  these  days,  perhaps  both  the  artist  and  the  philosopher  had 
been  poets.  But  (with  regard  to  the  latter)  at  that  time  poetry 
was  not  the  customary  vent  for  deep  thought,  or  passionate 
feeling.  Gray,  it  is  true,  though  unjustly  condemned  as  artificial 
and  meretricious  in  his  style,  had  infused  into  the  scanty  works 
which  he  has  bequeathed  to  immortality  a  pathos  and  a  rich- 
ness foreign  to  the  literature  of  the  age ;  and,  subsequently. 
Goldsmith,  in  the  affecting  yet  somewhat  enervate  simplicity 
of  his  verse,  had  obtained  for  Poetry  a  brief  respite  from  a 
school  at  once  declamatory  and  powerless,  and  led  her  forth 
for  a  "Sunshine  Holiday,"  into  the  village  green,  and  under 
the  hawthorn  shade.  But  though  the  softer  and  meeker  feelings 
had  struggled  into  a  partial  and  occasional  vent,  those  which 
partook  more  of  passion  and  of  thought,  the  deep,  the  wild, 
the  fervid,  were  still  without  "  the  music  of  a  voice."     For  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  ^^^5 

after-century  it  was  reserved  to  restore  what  we  may  be 
permitted  to  call  the  spirit  of  our  national  literature  ;  to 
forsake  the  clinquant  of  the  French  mimickers  of  classic  gold  ; 
to  exchange  a  thrice-adulterated  Hippocrene  for  the  pure  well 
of  Shakspeare  and  of  nature  ;  to  clothe  philosophy  in  the 
gorgeous  and  solemn  majesty  of  appropriate  music ;  and  to 
invest  passion  with  a  language  as  burning  as  its  thought,  and 
rapid  as  its  impulse.  At  that  time  reflection  found  its  natural 
channel  in  metaphysical  inquiry,  or  political  speculation  :  both 
valuable,  perhaps,  but  neither  profound.  It  was  a  bold,  and  a 
free,  and  an  inquisitive  age,  but  not  one  in  which  thought  ran 
over  its  set  and  stationary  banks,  and  watered  even  the  common 
flowers  of  verse  :  not  one  in  which  Lucretius  could  have 
embodied  the  dreams  of  Epicurus  ;  Shakspeare  lavished  the 
mines  of  a  superhuman  wisdom  upon  his  fairy  palaces  and 
enchanted  islesi ;  or  the  Beautifier  *  of  this  common  earth  have 
called  forth — 

"  The  motion  of  the  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought " ; 

or  Disappointment  and  Satiety  have  hallowed  their  human 
griefs  by  a  pathos  wrought  from  whatever  is  magnificent,  and 
grand,  and  lovely  in  the  unknown  universe  ;  or  the  specula- 
tions of  a  great  but  visionary  f  mind  have  raised,  upon 
subtlety  and  doubt,  a  vast  and  irregular  pile  of  verse,  full  of 
dim-lighted  cells  and  winding  galleries,  in  which  what  treasures 
lie  concealed  !  That  was  an  age  in  which  poetry  took  one 
path,  and  contemplation  another  ;  those  who  were  addicted  to 
the  latter  pursued  it  in  its  orthodox  roads  ;  and  many  whom 
Nature,  perhaps,  intended  for  poets,  the  wizard  Custom  con- 
verted into  speculators  or  critics. 

It  was  this  which  gave  to  Algernon's  studies  their  peculiar 
hue  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  taste  for  the  fine  arts  which 
then  universally  prevailed,  directed  to  the  creations  of  paint- 
ing, rather  than  those. of  poetry,  more  really  congenial  to  his 
powers,  the  intense  imagination  and  passion  for  glory  which 
marked  and  pervaded  the  character  of  the  artist. 

But  as  we  have  seen  that  that  passion  for  glory  made  the 
great  characteristic  difference  between  Clarence  and  Warner, 
so  also  did  that  passion  terminate  any  resemblance  which  War- 
ner bore  to  Algernon  Mordaunt.  With  the  former,  a  rank  and 
unwholesome  plant,  it  grew  up  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else : 
i^ith  the  latter,  subdued  and  regulated,  it  sheltered,  not  withered, 

*  Wordsworth.  t  Shelley. 


76  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  virtues  by  which  it  was  surrounded.  With  Warner,  ambi- 
tion was  a  passionate  desire  to  separate  himself  by  fame  from 
the  herd  of  other  men  ;  with  Mordaunt,  to  bind  himself  by 
charity  yet  closer  to  his  kind :  with  the  one  it  produced  a  dis- 
gust to  his  species  ;  with  the  other,  a  pity  and  a  love  :  with  the 
one,  power  was  the  badge  of  distinction  ;  with  the  other,  the 
means  to  bless  !     But  our  story  lingers. 

It  was  now  the  custom  of  Warner  to  spend  the  whole  day  at 
his  work,  and  wander  out  with  Clarence,  when  the  evening 
darkened,  to  snatch  a  brief  respite  of  exercise  and  air.  Often, 
along  the  lighted  and  populous  streets,  would  the  two  young 
and  unfriended  competitors  for  this  world's  high  places  roam 
with  the  various  crowd,  moralizing  as  they  went,  or  holding  dim 
conjecture  upon  their  destinies  to  be.  And  often  would  they 
linger  beneath  the  portico  of  some  house  where,  "haunted with 
great  resort,"  Pleasure  and  Pomp  held  their  nightly  revels,  to 
listen  to  the  music  that,  through  the  open  windows,  stole  over 
the  rare  exotics  with  which  wealth  mimics  the  southern  scents, 
and  floated,  mellowing  by  distance,  along  the  unworthy  streets, 
and  while  they  stood  together,  silent,  and  each  feeding  upon 
separate  thoughts,  the  aitist's  pale  lip  would  curl  with  scorn, 
as  he  heard  the  laugh  and  the  sounds  of  a  frivolous  and  hollow 
mirth  ring  from  the  crowd  within,  and  startle  the  air  from  the 
silver  spell  which  music  had  laid  upon  it,  "These,"  would  he 
say  to  Clarence,  "  these  are  the  dupes  of  the  same  fever  as 
ourselves :  like  us,  they  strive,  and  toil,  and  vex  their  little 
lives  for  a  distinction  from  their  race.  Ambition  comes  to 
them,  as  to  all ;  but  they  throw  for  a  different  prize  than  we 
do  ;  theirs  is  the  honor  of  a  day,  ours  is  immortality ;  yet  they 
take  the  same  labor,  and  are  consumed  by  the  same  care.  And, 
fools  that  they  are,  with  their  gilded  names  and  their  gaudy 
trappings,  they  would  shrink  in  disdain  from  that  comparison 
with  us  which  we,  with  a  juster  fastidiousness,  blush  at  this 
moment  to  acknowledge. 

From  these  scenes  they  would  rove  on,  and,  both  delighting 
in  contrast,  enter  some  squalid  and  obscure  quarter  of  the  city. 
There,  one  night,  quiet  observers  of  their  kind,  they  paused 
beside  a  group  congregated  together  by  some  common  cause  of 
obscene  merriment  or  unholy  fellowship — a  group  on  which  low 
vice  had  set  her  sordid  and  hideous  stamp — to  gaze  and  draw 
strange  humors  or  a  motley  moral  from  that  depth  and  ferment 
of  human  nature,  into  whose  sink  the  thousand  streams  of  civi- 
lization had  poured  their  dregs  and  offal. 

"You  survey  these,"  said  the  painter,  marking  each  with  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  77 

curious  eye  of  his  profession  :  "  they  are  a  base  horde,  it  is 
true,  but  they  have  their  thirst  of  fame,  their  aspirations  even 
in  the  abyss  of  crime,  or  the  loathsomeness  of  famished  warn. 
Down  in  yon  cellar,  where  a  farthing  rushlight  glimmers  upon 
haggard  cheeks,  distorted  with  the  idiotcy  of  drink — there,  in 
that  foul  attic,  from  whose  casement  you  see  the  beggar's  rags 
hang  to  dry,  or  rather  to  crumble  in  the  reeking  and  filthy 
air — farther  on,  within  those  walls  which,  i)lack  and  heavy  as 
the  hearts  they  hide,  close  our  miserable  prospect, — there,  even 
there,  in  the  mildewed  dungeon,  in  the  felon's  cell,  on  the  very 
scaffold  shelf — Ambition  hugs  her  own  hope,  or  scowls  upon 
her  own  despair.  Yes !  the  inmates  of  those  walls  had  their 
perilous  game  of  honor,  their  'hazard  of  the  die,'  in  which  vice 
was  triumph  and  infamy  success.  We  do  but  share  their  pas- 
sion, though  we  direct  it  to  a  better  object." 

Pausing  for  a  moment,  as  his  thoughts  flowed  into  a  some- 
what different  channel  of  his  cliaracter,  Warner  continued — 
"We  have  now  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  two  great  divisions  of 
mankind  ;  they  who  riot  in  palaces,  and  they  who  make  mirth 
hideous  in  rags  and  hovels  :  own  that  it  is  but  a  poor  survey 
in  either.  Can  we  be  contemptible  with  these,  or  loathsome 
with  those  ?  Or  rather  have  we  not  a  nobler  spark  within  us, 
which  we  have  but  to  fan  into  a  flame,  that  shall  burn  forever, 
when  these  miserable  meteors  sink  into  the  corruption  from 
which  they  rise  ?" 

"But,"  observed  Clarence,  "these  are  the  two  extremes  ;  the 
pinnacle  of  civilization  too  worn  and  bare  for  any  more  noble 
and  vigorous  fruit,  and  the  base  upon  which  the  cloud  descends 
in  rain  and  storm.  Look  to  the  central  portion  of  society ; 
there  the  soil  is  more  genial,  and  its  produce  more  rich." 

"Is  it  so,  in  truth?"  answered  Warner;  "pardon  me,  I 
believe  not ;  the  middling  classes  are  as  human  as  the  rest. 
There  is  the  region, — the  heart — of  Avarice, — systematized, 
spreading,  rotting,  the  very  fungus  and  leprosy  of  social  states- 
suspicion,  craft,  hypocrisy,  servility  to  the  great,  oppression 
to  the  low,  the  wax-like  mimicry  of  courtly  vices,  the  hardness 
of  flint  to  humble  woes ;  thought,  feeling,  the  faculties  and 
impulses  of  man,  all  ulcered  into  one  great  canker — Gain  ; 
these  make  the  general  character  of  the  middling  class,  the 
unleavened  mass  of  that  mediocrity  which  it  has  been  the  wis- 
dom of  the  shallow  to  applaud.  Pah  !  we  too  are  of  this  class, 
this  potter's  earth,  this  paltry  mixture  of  mud  and  stone ;  but 
we,  my  friend,  we  will  knead  gold  into  our  clay." 

"  But  look,"  said  Clarence,  pointing    to    the  group  before 


j8  THE    DISOWNED. 

them  ;  "look,  yon  wretched  mother,  whose  voice  an  instant  ago 
uttered  the  coarsest  accents  of  maudlin  and  intoxicated  prosti- 
tution, is  now  fostering  her  infant,  with  a  fondness  stamped 
upon  her  worn  cheek  and  hollow  eye,  which  might  shame  the 
nice  maternity  of  nobles  ;  and  there  too,  yon  wretch  whom, 
in  the  reckless  effrontery  of  hardened  abandonment,  we  our- 
selves heard  a  few  minutes  since  boast  of  his  dexterity  in  theft, 
and  openly  exhibitits  token — look,  he  is  now,  with  a  Samaritan's 
own  charity,  giving  the  very  goods  for  which  his  miserable  life 
was  risked,  to  that  attenuated  and  starving  stripling !  No^ 
Warner,  no  !  even  this  mass  is  not  unleavened.  The  vilest 
infamy  is  not  too  deep  for  the  Seraph  Virtue  to  descend  and 
illumine  its  abyss  !  " 

"  Out  on  the  weak  fools  ! "  said  the  artist,  bitterly  :  "it  would 
be  something,  if  they  could  be  consistent  even  in  crime  !  "  and, 
placing  his  arm  in  Linden's,  he  drew  him  away. 

As  the  picture  grew  beneath  the  painter's  hand,  Clarence 
was  much  struck  with  the  outline  and  expression  of  counte- 
nance given  to  the  regicide  Bradshaw. 

"  They  are  but  an  imperfect  copy  of  the  living  original  from 
whom  I  have  borrowed  them,"  said  Warner,  in  answer  to 
Clarence's  remark  upon  the  sternness  of  the  features.  "  But 
that  original,  a  relation  of  mine,  is  coming  here  to-day — you 
shall  see  him." 

While  Warner  was  yet  speaking,  the  person  in  question 
entered.  His  were,  indeed,  the  form  and  face  worthy  to  be 
seized  by  the  painter.  The  peculiarity  of  his  character  made 
him  affect  a  plainness  of  dress  unusual  to  the  day*  and  approach- 
ing to  the  simplicity,  but  not  the  neatness,  of  Quakerism.  His 
hair, — then,  with  all  the  better  ranks,  a  principal  object  of 
cultivation, — was  wild,  dishevelled,  and,  in  wiry  flakes  of  the 
sablest  hue,  rose  abruptly  from  a  forehead  on  which  either 
thought  or  passion  had  written  its  annals  with  an  iron  pen  ;  the 
lower  part  of  the  brow,  which  overhung  the  eye,  was  singularly 
sharp  and  prominent ;  while  the  lines,  or  rather  furrows,  traced 
under  the  eyes  and  nostrils,  spoke  somewhat  of  exhaustion  and 
internal  fatigue.  But  this  expression  was  contrasted  and  con- 
tradicted by  the  firmly  compressed  lip  ;  the  lighted,  steady, 
stern  eye  ;  the  resolute  and  even  stubborn  front,  joined  to 
proportions  strikingly  athletic,  and  a  stature  of  uncommon 
height. 

"  Well,  Wolfe,'!  said  the  young  painter  to  the  person  we  have 
described,  "  it  is  indeed  a  kindness  to  give  me  a  second  sitting." 

"  Tush,  boy  !  "  answered  Wolfe  :  "  all  men  have  their  vain 


THE  DISOWNED,  79 

points,  and  I  own  that  I  am  not  ill  pleased  that  these  rugged 
features  should  be  assigned,  even  in  fancy,  to  one  of  the 
noblest  of  those  men  who  judged  the  mightiest  cause  in  which 
a  country  was  ever  plaintiff,  a  tyrant  criminal,  and  a  world 
witness  !  " 

While  Wolfe  was  yet  speaking,  his  countenance,  so  naturally 
harsh,  took  a  yet  sterner  aspect,  and  the  artist,  by  a  happy 
touch,  succeeded  in  transferring  it  to  the  canvas. 

"  But,  after  all,"  continued  Wolfe,  "it  shames  me  to  lend  aid 
to  an  art  frivolous  in  itself,  and  almost  culpable  in  times  when 
Freedom  wants  the  head  to  design,  and,  perhaps,  the  hand  to 
execute,  far  other  and  nobler  works  than  the  blazoning  of  her 
past  deeds  upon  perishable  canvas." 

A  momentary  anger  at  the  slight  put  upon  his  art  crossed  the 
pale  brow  of  the  artist ;  but  he  remembered  the  character  of  the 
man,  and  continued  his  work  in  silence. 

"  You  consider  then,  sir,  that  these  are  times  in  which  liberty 
is  attacked  ?  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Attacked  !  "  repeated  Wolfe — "  attacked  !  "  and  then  sud- 
denly sinking  his  voice  into  a  sort  of  sneer — "  v/hy,  since  the 
event  which  this  painting  is  designed  to  commemorate — I  know 
not  if  we  have  ever  had  one  solitary  gleam  of  liberty  break  along 
the  great  chaos  of  jarring  prejudice  and  barbarous  law  which 
we  term,  forsooth,  a  glorious  constitution.  Liberty  attacked  ! 
no,  boy — but  it  is  a  time  when  Liberty  may  be  gained." 

Perfectly  unacquainted  with  the  excited  politics  of  the  day, 
or  the  growing  and  mighty  spirit  which  then  stirred  through 
the  minds  of  men,  Clarence  remained  silent ;  but  his  evident 
attention  flattered  the  fierce  republican,  and  he  proceeded. 

"  Ay,"  he  said  slowly,  and  as  if  drinking  in  a  deep  and  stern 
joy  from  his  conviction  in  the  truth  of  the  words  he  uttered — 
"Ay,  I  have  wandered  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  I  have 
warmed  my  soul  at  the  fires  which  lay  hidden  under  its  quiet 
surface  ;  I  have  been  in  the  city  and  the  desert — the  herded 
and  banded  crimes  of  the  Old  World,  and  the  scattered,  but 
bold,  hearts  which  are  found  among  the  savannahs  of  the  New  ; 
and  in  either  I  have  beheld  that  seed  sown  which,  from  a 
mustard  grain,  too  scanty  for  a  bird's  beak,  shall  grow  up  to  be 
a  shelter  and  a  home  for  the  whole  family  of  man.  I  have 
looked  upon  the  thrones  of  kings,  and  lo,  the  anointed  ones 
were  in  purple  and  festive  pomp ;  and  I  looked  beneath  the 
thrones,  and  I  saw  Want  and  Hunger  and  despairing  Wrath 
gnawing  the  foundations  away.  I  have  stood  in  the  streets  of 
that  great  city  where  Mirth  seems  to   hold  an  eternal  jubilee, 


8o  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  beheld  the  noble  riot  while  the  peasant  starved ;  and  the 
priest  build  altars  to  Mammon  piled  from  the  earnings  of 
groaning  Labor,  and  cemented  with  blood  and  tears.  But  I 
looked  farther,  and  saw,  in  the  rear,  chains  sharpened  into 
swords,  misery  ripening  into  justice,  and  famine  darkening 
into  revenge  ;  and  I  laughed  as  I  beheld,  for  I  knew  that  the 
day  of  the  oppressed  was  at  hand." 

Somewhat  awed  by  the  prophetic  tone,  though  revolted  by 
what  seemed  to  him  the  novelty  and  the  fierceness,  of  the 
sentiments  of  the  republican,  Clarence  after  a  brief  pause  said  : 

"And  what  of  our  own  country?" 

Wolfe's  brow  darkened.  "The  oppression  here,"  said  he, 
"has  not  been  so  weighty,  therefore  the  reaction  will  be  less 
strong;  the  parties  are  more  blended,  therefore  their  separation 
will  be  more  arduous  ;  the  extortion  is  less  strained,  therefore 
the  endurance  will  be  mora  meek  ;  but,  soon  or  late,  the 
struggle  must  come  ;  bloody  will  it  be  if  the  strife  be  even  ; 
gentle  and  lasting,  if  the  people  predominate." 

"And  if  the  rulers  be  the  strongest?"  said  Clarence, 

"  The  struggle  will  be  renewed,"  replied  Wolfe  doggedly, 

"  You  still  attend  those  oratorical  meetings,  cousin,  1  think," 
said  Warner. 

"  I  do,"  said  Wolfe;  "  and  if  you  are  not  so  utterly  absorbed 
in  your  vain  and  idle  art  as  to  be  indifferent  to  all  things 
nobler,  you  will  learn  yourself  to  take  interest  in  what  con- 
cerns— I  will  not  say  your  country — but  mankind.  For  you, 
young  man  (and  the  republican  turned  to  Clarence),  I  would 
fain  hope  that  life  has  not  already  been  diverted  from  the 
greatest  of  human  objects  ;  if  so,  come  to-morrow  night  to 
our  assembly,  and  learn  from  worthier  lips  than  mine  the  pre- 
cepts and  the  hopes  for  which  good  men  live  or  die." 

"I  will  come  at  all  events  to  listen,  if  not  to  learn,"  said  Clar- 
ence eagerly,  for  his  curiosity  was  excited.  And  the  republican, 
having  now  fulfilled  the  end  of  his  visit,  rose  and  departed. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Bound  to  suffer  persecution 
And  martyrdom  with  resolution, 
T'oppose  /liwse//  agiiinst  the  hate 
And  vengeance  of  the  incensed  state." — Hudibras. 

Born  of  respectable,  though  not  wealthy,  parents,  John  Wolfe 
was  one  of  those  fiery  and  daring  spirits  which,  previous  to 


Tlie  DISOWNED.  81 

some  mighty  revolution,  Fate  seems  to  scatter  over  various  parts 

of  the  earth,  even  those  removed  from  the  predestined  explo- 
sion ;  heralds  of  the  events  in  which  they  are  fitted,  though  not 
fated,  to  be  actors.  The  period  at  which  he  is  presented  to 
the  reader  was  one  considerably  prior  to  that  French  Revolu- 
tion so  much  debated,  and  so  little  understood.  But  some 
such  event,  though  not  foreseen  by  the  common,  had  been  al- 
ready foreboded  by  the  more  enlightened,  eye;  and  Wolfe,  from 
a  protracted  residence  in  France,  among  the  most  discontented 
of  its  freer  spirits,  had  brought  hope  to  that  burning  enthusi- 
asm which  had  long  made  the  pervading  passion  of  his  existence. 

Bold  to  ferocity,  generous  in  devotion  to  folly  in  self-sacri- 
fice, unflinching  in  his  tenets  to  a  degree  which  rendered  their 
ardor  ineffectual  to  all  times,  because  utterly  inapplicable  to 
the  present,  Wolfe  was  one  of  those  zealots  whose  very  virtues 
have  the  semblance  of  vice,  and  whose  very  capacities  for  dan- 
ger become  harmless  from  the  rashness  of  their  excess. 

It  was  not  among  the  philosophers  and  reasoners  of  France 
that  Wolfe  had  drawn  strength  to  his  opinions  :  whatever  such 
companions  might  have  done  to  his  tenets,  they  would  at  least 
have  moderated  his  actions.  The  philosopher  may  aid,  or  ex- 
pedite, a  change  ;  but  never  does  the  philosopher  in  any  age,  or 
of  any  sect,  countenance  a  crime.  But  of  philosophers  Wolfe 
icnew  little,  and  probably  despised  them  for  their  temper- 
ance :  it  was  among  fanatics — ignorant,  but  imaginative — that 
he  had  strengthened  the  love,  without  comprehending  the 
nature,  of  republicanism.  Like  Lucian's  painter,  whose  flattery 
portrayed  the  one-eyed  prince  in  profile,  he  viewed  only  that 
side  of  the  question  in  which  there  was  no  defect,  and  gave 
beauty  to  the  whole  by  concealing  the  half.  Thus,  though  on 
his  return  to  England  herding  with  the  common  class  of  his 
reforming  brethren,  Wolf'i  possessed  many  peculiarities  and 
distinctions  of  character  which  in  rendering  him  strikingly 
adapted  to  the  purpose  of  the  novelist,  must  serve  as  a  caution 
to  the  reader  not  to  judge  of  the  class  by  the  individual. 

With  a  class  of  republicans  in  England  there  was  a  strong 
tendency  to  support  their  cause  by  reasoning.  With  Wolfe, 
whose  mind  was  little  wedded  to  logic,  all  was  the  offspring  of 
turbulent  feelings,  which,  in  rejecting  arguments,  substituted 
declamation  for  syllogism.  This  effected  a  powerful  and  irrec- 
oncilable distinction  between  Wolfe  and  the  better  part  of  his 
comrades  ;  for  the  habits  of  cool  reasoning,  whether  true  or 
false,  are  little  likely  to  bias  the  mind  towards  those  crimes  to 
which  Wolfe's  irregulated  emotions  might  possibly  urge  him, 


82  "THE   DlSOWN-EO. 

and  give  to  the  characters,  to  which  they  are  a  sort  of  common 
denominator,  something  of  method  and  much  of  similarity. 
But  the  feehngs — those  orators  wliich  allow  no  calculation,  and 
baffle  the  tameness  of  comparison — rendered  Wolfe  alone, 
unique,  eccentric  in  opinion  or  action, whether  of  vice  or  virtue. 

Private  ties  frequently  moderate  the  ardor  of  our  public  en- 
thusiasm. Wolfe  had  none.  His  nearest  relation  was  Warner, 
and  it  may  readily  be  supposed  that  with  the  pensive  and  con- 
templative artist  he  had  very  little  in  common.  He  had  never 
married,  nor  had  ever  seemed  to  wander  from  his  stern  and 
sterile  path,  in  the  most  transient  pursuit  of  the  pleasures  of 
sense.  Inflexibly  honest,  rigidly  austere — in  his  moral  char- 
acter his  bitterest  enemies  could  detect  no  flaw — poor,  even  to 
indigence,  he  had  invariably  refused  all  overtures  of  the  govern- 
ment— thrice  imprisoned  and  heavily  fined  for  his  doctrines,  no 
fear  of  a  future,  no  remembrance  of  the  past,  punishment  could 
ever  silence  his  bitter  eloquence  or  moderate  the  passion  of  his 
distempered  zeal — kindly,  though  rude,  his  scanty  means  were 
ever  shared  by  the  less  honest  and  disinterested  followers  of 
his  faith  ;  and  he  had  been  known  for  days  to  deprive  himself 
of  food,  and  for  nights  of  shelter,  for  the  purpose  of  yielding 
food  and  shelter  to  another. 

Such  was  the  man  doomed  to  forsake,  through  a  long  and 
wasted  life,  every  substantial  blessing,  in  pursuit  of  a  shadowy 
good  ;  with  the  warmest  benevolence  in  his  heart,  to  relinquish 
private  affections,  and  to  brood  even  to  madness  over  public 
offences — to  sacrifice  everything  in  a  generous,  though  erring, 
devotion  for  that  freedom  whose  cause,  instead  of  promoting, 
he  was  calculated  to  retard  ;  and,  while  he  believed  himself  the 
martyr  of  a  high  and  uncompromising  virtue,  to  close  his  ca- 
reer with  the  greatest  of  human  crimes. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Faith,  methinks  his  humor  is  good,  and  his  purse  will  buy  good  company." 

The  Parson  s  Wedding. 

When  Clarence  returned  home,  after  the  conversation  re- 
corded in  our  last  chapter,  he  found  a  note  from  Talbot,  invit- 
ing him  to  meet  some  friends  of  the  latter  at  supper  that  even- 
ing. It  was  the  first  time  Clarence  had  been  asked,  and  he 
looked  forward  with  some  curiosity  and  impatience  to  the  hour 
appointed  in  the  note. 


THE    DISOWNED.  % 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  idea  of  the  jealous  rancor  felt 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Copperas  on  hearing  of  this  distinction — a 
distinction  which  **  the  perfect  courtier  "  had  never  once  be- 
stowed upon  themselves. 

Mrs.  Copperas  tossed  her  head,  too  indignant  for  words  ;  and 
the  stock-jobber,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  affirmed,  with  a 
meaning  air,  "  that  he  dared  say,  after  all,  that  the  old  gentle- 
man was  not  so  rich  as  he  gave  out." 

On  entering  Talbot's  drawing-room,  Clarence  found  about 
seven  or  eight  people  assembled  :  their  names,  in  proclaiming 
the  nature  of  the  party,  indicated  that  the  aim  of  the  host  was 
to  combine  aristocracy  and  talent.  The  literary  acquirements 
and  worldly  tact  of  Talbot,  joined  to  the  adventitious  circum- 
stances of  birth  and  fortune,  enabled  him  to  effect  this  object, 
so  desirable  in  polished  society,  far  better  than  we  generally 
find  it  effected  now.  The  conversation  of  these  guests  was 
light  and  various.  The  last  bon  mot  of  Chesterfield,  the  last 
sarcasm  of  Horace  Walpole,  Goldsmith's  "  Traveller,"  Shen- 
stone's  "  Pastorals,"  and  the  attempt  of  Mrs.  Montagu  to  bring 
Shakespeare  into  fashion — in  all  these  subjects  the  graceful  wit 
and  exquisite  taste  of  Talbot  shone  pre-eminent ;  and  he  had 
almost  succeeded  in  convincing  a  profound  critic  that  Gray 
was  a  poet  more  likely  to  live  than  Mason,  when  the  servant 
announced  supper. 

That  was  tlie  age  of  suppers  !  Happy  age  !  Meal  of  ease 
and  mirth  ;  when  Wine  and  Night  lit  the  lamp  of  Wit !  O, 
what  precious  things  were  said  and  looked  at  those  banquets 
of  the  soul !  There  epicurism  was  in  the  lip  as  well  as  the 
palate,  and  one  had  humor  ioxd^hors  d'oeuvre,  and  repartee  for  an 
entremet.  In  dinner  there  is  something  too  pompous,  too  formal, 
lor  the  true  ease  of  Table  Talk.  One's  intellectual  appetite, 
'like  the  physical,  is  coarse  but  dull.  At  dinner  one  is  fit  only 
for  eating  ;  after  dinner  only  for  politics.  But  supper  was  a 
glorious  relic  of  the  ancients.  The  bustle  of  the  day  had  thor- 
oughly wound  up  the  spirit,  and  every  stroke  upon  the  dial- 
plate  of  wit  was  true  to  the  genius  of  the  hour.  The  wallet  of 
diurnal  anecdote  was  full,  and  craved  unloading.  The  great 
meal — that  vulgar  first  love  of  the  appetite — was  over,  and  one 
now  only  flattered  it  into  coquetting  with  another.  The  mind, 
disengaged  and  free,  was  no  longer  absorbed  in  a  cutlet  or  bur- 
thened  with  a  joint.  The  gourmand  carried  the  nicety  of  his 
physical  perception  to  his  moral,  and  applauded  a  bon  mot 
instead  of  a  bo7ine  bottche. 

Then  too  one  had  no  necessity  to  keep  a  reserve  of  thought 


$4  THE   DISOWNED. 

for  the  after-evening  ;  supper  was  the  final  consummation,  the 
glorious  funeral  pyre  of  day.  One  could  be  merry  till  bed- 
time without  an  interregnum.  Nay,  if  in  the  ardor  of  con- 
vivialism  one  did — I  merely  hint  of  the  possibility  of  such  an 
event— if  one  did  exceed  the  narrow  limits  of  strict  ebriety, 
and  open  the  heart  with  a  ruby  key,  one  had  nothing  to  dread 
from  the  cold,  or,  what  is  worse,  the  warm  looks  of  ladies  in 
the  drawing-room  ;  no  fear  that  an  imprudent  word,  in  the 
amatory  fondness  of  the  fermented  blood,  might  expose  one  to 
matrimony  and  settlements.  There  was  no  tame,  trite  medium 
of  propriety  and  suppressed  confidence,  no  bridge  from  board 
to  bed,  over  which  a  false  step  (and  your  wine  cup  is  a  mar- 
vellous corruptor  of  ambulatory  rectitude)  might  precipitate 
into  an  irrecoverable  abyss  of  perilous  communication  or  un- 
wholesome truth.  One's  pillow  became  at  once  the  legitimate 
and  natural  bourne  to  "the  overheated  brain";  and  the  gen- 
erous rashness  of  the  coenatorial  reveller  was  not  damped  by 
untimeous  caution  or  ignoble  calculation. 

But  "  we  have  changed  all  that  now  ";  Sobriety  has  become 
the  successor  of  suppers  ;  the  great  ocean  of  moral  encroach- 
ment has  not  left  us  one  little  island  of  refuge.  Miserable  sup- 
per-lovers that  we  are,  like  the  native  Indians  of  America,  a 
scattered  and  daily  disappearing  race,  we  wander  among 
strange  customs,  and  behold  the  innovating  and  invading  Din- 
ner spread  gradually  over  the  very  space  of  time  in  which  the 
majesty  of  Supper  once  reigned  undisputed  and  supreme  I 

"  O,  ye  heavens,  be  kind. 
And  feel,  thou  earth,  for  this  afflicted  race." — Wordsworth. 

As  he  was  sitting  down  to  the  table  Clarence's  notice  was 
arrested  by  a  somewhat  suspicious  and  unpleasing  occurrence. 
The  supper  room  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and,  owing  to  the 
heat  of  the  weather,  one  of  the  windows,  facing  the  small  gar- 
den, was  left  open.  Through  this  window  Clarence  distinctly 
saw  the  face  of  a  man  look  into  the  room  for  one  instant,  with 
a  prying  and  curious  gaze,  and  then  as  instantly  disappear.  As 
no  one  else  seemed  to  remark  this  incident,  and  the  general 
attention  was  somewhat  noisily  engrossed  by  the  subject  of 
conversation,  Clarence  thought  it  not  worth  while  to  mention  a 
circumstance  for  which  the  impertinence  of  any  neighboring 
servant,  or  drunken  passer-by,  might  easily  account.  An 
apprehension,  however,  of  a  more  unpleasant  nature  shot 
across  him,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  costly  plate  which  Talbot 
rather  ostentatiously  displayed,  and  then  glanced  to  the  single 


THE    DISOWNED.  85 

and  aged  servant,  who  was,  beside  his  master,  ihe  only  male 
inmate  of  the  house.  Nor  could  he  help  saying  to  Talbot,  in 
the  course  of  the  evening,  that  he  wondered  he  was  not  afraid 
of  hoarding  so  many  articles  of  value  in  a  house  at  once  lonely 
and  ill  guarded. 

"Ill  guarded  !"  said  Talbot,  rather  affronted,  "why,  I  and 
my  servant  always  sleep  here  !  " 

To  this  Clarence  thought  it  neither  prudent  nor  well-bred  to 
offer  further  remark. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  Meetings,  or  public  calls  he  never  miss'd, 
To  dictate  often,  always  to  assist. 
*  *■       *  *  * 

To  his  experience  and  his  native  sense, 

He  joined  a  bold,  imperious  eloquence  : 

The  grave,  stern  look  of  men  inform'd  and  wise, 

A  full  command  of  feature,  heart  and  eyes, 

An  awe-compelling  frown,  and  fear-inspiring  size." — Crabbe. 

The  next  evening  Clarence,  mindful  of  Wolfe's  invitation, 
inquired  from  Warner  (who  repaid  the  contempt  of  the  repub- 
lican for  the  painter's  calling  by  a  similar  feeling  for  the  zeal- 
ot's) the  direction  of  the  oratorical  meeting,  and  repaired  there 
alone.  It  was  the  most  celebrated  club  (of  that  description) 
of  the  day,  and  well  worth  attending,  as  a  gratification  to  thf; 
curiosity,  if  not  an  improvement  to  the  mind. 

On  entering,  he  found  himself  in  a  long  room,  tolerably  well 
lighted,  and  still  better  filled.  The  sleepy  countenances  of  the 
audience,  the  whispered  conversation  carried  on  at  scattered 
intervals,  the  listless  attitudes  of  some,  the  frequent  yawns  of 
others,  the  eagerness  with  which  attention  was  attracted  to  the 
opening  door,  when  it  admitted  some  new  object  of  interest, 
the  desperate  resolution  with  which  some  of  the  more  energetic 
turned  themselves  towards  the  orator,  and  then,  with  a  faint 
shake  of  the  head,  turned  themselves  again  hopelessly  away — 
were  all  signs  that  denoted  that  no  very  eloquent  declaimer 
was  in  possession  of  the  "  house."  It  was,  indeed,  a  singularly 
dull,  monotonous  voice  which,  arising  from  the  upper  end  of 
the  room,  dragged  itself  on  towards  the  middle,  and  expired 
with"  a  sighing  sound  before  it  reached  the  end.  The  face  of 
the  speaker  suited  his  vocal  powers  ;  it  was  small,  mean,  and  of 
a  round  stupidity,  without  anything  even  in  fault  that  could 


86  THE   DISOWNED. 

possibly  command  attention,  or  even  the  excitement  of  disap- 
probation :  the  very  garments  of  the  orator  seemed  dull  and 
heavy,  and,  like  the  Melancholy  of  Milton,  had  a  "  leaden 
look."  Now  and  then  some  words,  more  emphatic  than  oth- 
ers— stones  breaking,  as  it  were,  with  a  momentary  splash,  the 
stagnation  of  the  heavy  stream — produced  from  three  very 
quiet,  unhappy-looking  persons,  seated  next  to  the  speaker,  his 
immediate  friends,  three  single  isolated  "  hears  !  " 

"  The  force  of  friendship  could  no  farther  go." 

At  last  the  orator,  having  spoken  through,  suddenly  stopped ; 
the  whole  meeting  seemed  as  if  a  weight  had  been  taken  from 
it ;  there  was  a  general  bu;'i  of  awakened  energy,  each  stretched 
his  limbs,  and  resettled  himself  in  his  place, 

"  And  turning  to  his  neighbor,  said, 
'  Rejoice  ! '  " 

A  pause  ensued — the  chairman  looked  round — the  eyes  of 
the  meeting  followed  those  of  their  president,  with  an  universal 
and  palpable  impatience,  towards  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
room :  the  pause  deepened  for  one  moment,  and  then  was 
broken  ;  a  voice  cried  "  Wolfe  !  "  and  at  that  signal  the  whole 
room  shook  with  the  name.  The  place  which  Clarence  had 
taken  did  not  allow  him  to  see  the  object  of  these  cries,  till  he 
rose  from  his  situation,  and,  passing  two  rows  of  benches,  stood 
forth  in  tlie  middle  space  of  the  room  ;  then,  from  one  to  one, 
went  round  the  general  roar  of  applause  ;  feet  stamped,  hands 
clapped,  umbrellas  set  their  sharp  points  to  the  ground,  and 
walking-sticks  thumped  themselves  out  of  shape  in  the  uni- 
versal clamor.  Tall,  gaunt,  and  erect,  the  speaker  possessed, 
even  in  the  mere  proportions  of  his  frame,  that  physical  power 
which  never  fails,  in  a  popular  assembly,  to  gain  attention  to 
mediocrity,  and  to  throw  dignity  over  faults.  He  looked  very 
slowly  round  the  room,  remaining  perfectly  still  and  motion- 
less, till  the  clamor  of  appla,use  had  entirely  subsided,  and 
every  ear,  Clarence's  no  less  eagerly  than  the  rest,  was  strained, 
and  thirsting  to  catch  the  first  syllables  of  his  voice. 

It  was  then  with  alow,  very  deep,  and  somewhat  hoarse  tone, 
that  he  began  ;  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  spoken  for  several 
minutes  that  the  iron  expression  of  his  face  altered,  that  the 
drooping  hand  was  raised,  and  that  the  suppressed,  yet  power- 
ful, voice  began  to  expand  and  vary  in  its  volume.  He  had 
then  entered  upon  a  new  department  of  his  subject.  The 
question  was  connected  with  the  English    constitution,  and 


THE   DISOWNED.  §7 

Wolfe  was  now  preparing  to  put  forth,  in  long  and  blackened 
array,  the  alleged  evils  of  an  aristocratical  form  of  government. 
Then  it  was  as  if  the  bile  and  bitterness  of  years  were  poured 
forth  m  a  terrible  and  stormy  wrath — then  his  action  became 
vehement,  and  his  eye  flashed  forth  unutterable  fire  ;  his  voice, 
solemn,  swelling  and  increasing  with  each  tone  in  its  height 
and  depth,  filled,  as  with  something  palpable  and  perceptible, 
the  shaking  walls.  The  listeners — a  various  and  unconnected 
group,  bound  by  no  tie  of  faith  or  of  party,  many  attracted  by 
curiosity,  many  by  the  hope  of  ridicule,  some  abhorring  the 
tenets  expressed,  and  nearly  all  disapproving  their  principles, 
or  doubting  their  wisdom — the  listeners,  certainly  not  a  group 
previously  formed  or  molded  into  enthusiam,  became  rapt  and 
earnest,  their  very  breath  forsook  them. 

Linden  had  never  before  that  night  heard  a  public  speaker  ; 
but  he  was  of  a  thoughtful  and  rather  calculating  mind,  and 
his  early  habits  of  decision,  and  the  premature  culti\Ation  of 
his  intellect,  rendered  him  little  susceptible,  in  genera},  to  the 
impressions  of  the  vulgar  ;  nevertheless,  in  spite  of  himself,  he 
was  hurried  away  by  the  stream,  and  found  that  the  force  and 
rapidity  of  the  speaker  did  not  allow  him  even  time  for  the  dis- 
sent and  disapprobation  which  his  republican  maxims  and 
fiery  denunciations  perpetually  excited  in  a  mind  aristocratic 
both  by  creed  and  education.  At  length,  after  a  peroration  of 
impetuous  and  magnificent  invective,  the  orator  ceased. 

In  the  midst  of  the  applause  that  followed,  Clarence  left  the 
assembly  ;  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  that  any  duller  or 
more  commonplace  speaker  should  fritter  away  the  spell  which 
yet  bound  and  engrossed  his  spirit. 


CHAPTER  Xviil. 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  was  a  small  door,  which  gave  way  before 
Nigel,  as  he  precipitated  himself  upon  the  scene  of  action,  a  cocked  pistol 
in  one  hand,  etc." — Fortunes  of  Nigel. 

The  night,  though  not  utterly  dark,  was  rendered  capricious 
and  dim  by  alternate  wind  and  rain  ;  and  Clarence  was  delayed 
in  his  return  homeward  by  seeking  occasional  shelter  from  the 
rapid  and  heavy  showers  which  hurried  by.  It  was  during  one 
of  the  temporary  cessationsof  the  rain  that  he  reached  Copperas 
Bower,  and  while  he  was  searching  in  his  pockets  for  the  key 
which  was  to  admit  him,  he  observed  two  men  loitering  about 


88  THE   DISOWNED. 

his  Deighbor's  house.  The  light  was  not  sufficient  to  give  him 
more  than  a  scattered  and  imperfect  view  of  their  motions. 
Somewhat  alarmed,  he  stood  for  several  moments  at  the  door, 
watching  them  as  well  as  he  was  able  ;  nor  did  he  enter  the 
house  till  the  loiterers  had  left  their  suspicious  position,  and, 
walking  onwards,  were  hid  entirely  from  him  by  the  distance 
and  darkness. 

"  It  really  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  Talbot,"  thought  Clarence, 
as  he  ascended  to  his  apartment,  "  to  keep  so  many  valuables, 
and  only  one  servant,  and  that  one  as  old  as  himself  too.  How' 
ever,  as  I  am  by  no  means  sleepy,  and  my  room  is  by  no  means 
cool,  I  may  as  well  open  my  window,  and  see  if  those  idle 
fellows  make  their  reappearance."  Suiting  the  action  to  the 
thought,  Clarence  opened  his  little  casement,  and  leant  wist- 
fully out. 

He  had  no  light  in  his  room,  for  none  was  ever  left  for  him. 
This  circumstance,  however,  of  course  enabled  him  the  bette^ 
to  penetrate  the  dimness  and  haze  of  the  night,  and,  by  the  help 
of  the  fluttering  lamps,  he  was  enabled  to  take  a  general, 
though   not  minute,  survey  of  the  scene  below. 

I  think  I  have  before  said  that  there  was  a  garden  between. 
Talbot's  house  and  Copperas  Bower  ;  this  was  bounded  by  a 
wall,  which  confined  Talbot's  peculiar  territory  of  garden,  and 
this  wall,  describing  a  parallelogram,  faced  also  the  road.  It 
contained  two  entrances — one  the  principal  adytus,  in  the 
shape  of  a  comely  iron  gate,  the  other  a  wooden  door,  which, 
being  a  private  pass,  fronted  the  intermediate  garden  before 
mentioned,  and  was  exactly  opposite  to  Clarence's  window. 

Linden  had  been  more  than  ten  minutes  at  his  post,  and  had 
just  begun  to  think  his  suspicions  without  foundation,  and  his 
vigil  in  vain,  when  he  observed  the  same  figures  he  had  seen 
before  advance  slowly  from  the  distance,  and  pause  by  the 
front  gate  of  Talbot's  mansion. 

Alarmed  and  anxious,  he  redoubled  liis  attention  ;  he  stretched 
himself,  as  far  as  his  safety  would  permit,  out  of  the  window  ; 
the  lamps,  agitated  by  the  wind,  which  swept  by  in  occasional 
gusts,  refused  to  grant  to  his  straining  sight  more  than  an  in- 
accurate and  unsatisfying  survey.  Presently  a  blast,  more 
violent  than  ordinary,  suspended  as  it  were  the  falling  columns 
of  rain,  and  left  Clarence  in  almost  total  darkness  ;  it  rolled 
away,  and  the  momentary  calm  which  ensued  enabled  him  to 
see  that  one  of  the  men  was  stooping  by  the  gate,  and  the  other 
standing  apparently  on  the  watch  at  a  little  distance.  Another 
gust  shook  the  lamps,  and  again  obscured  his  view  :  and  when 


THE  D1S0WK£6.  8$ 

it  had  passed  onward  in  its  rapid  course,  the  men  had  left  the 
gate,  and  were  in  the  garden  beneath  his  window.  They  crept 
cautiously,  but  swiftly,  along  the  opposite  wall,  till  they  came 
to  the  small  door  vve  have  before  mentioned  ;  here  they  halted, 
and  one  of  them  appeared  to  occupy  himself  in  opening  the 
door.  Now,  then,  fear  was  changed  into  certainty,  and  it  seemed, 
without  doubt,  that  the  men,  having  found  some  difficulty  or 
danger  in  forcing  the  stronger  or  more  public  entrance,  had 
changed  their  quarter  of  attack.  No  more  time  was  to  be  lost  ; 
Clarence  shouted  aloud,  but  the  high  v/ind  probably  prevented 
the  sound  reaching  the  ears  of  the  burglars,  or  at  least  rendered 
it  dubious  and  confused.  The  next  moment,  and  before 
Clarence  could  repeat  his  alarm,  they  had  opened  the  door, 
and  were  within  the  neighboring  garden,  beyond  his  view. 
Very  young  men,  unless  their  experience  has  outstripped  their 
youth,  seldom  have  much  presence  of  mind  ;  that  quality,  which 
is  the  opposite  to  surprise^  comes  to  us  in  those  years  when 
nothing  seems  to  us  strange  or  unexpected.  But  a  much  older 
man  than  Clarence  might  have  well  been  at  a  loss  to  know  what 
conduct  to  adopt  in  the  situation  in  which  our  hero  was  placed. 
The  visits  of  the  watchman  to  that  (then)  obscure  and  ill- 
inhabited  neighborhood,  were  more  regulated  by  his  indolence 
than  his  duty,  and  Clarence  knew  that  it  would  be  in  vain  to 
listen  for  his  cry,  or  tarry  for  his  assistance.  He  himself  was 
utterly  unarmed,  but  the  stock-jobber  had  a  pair  of  horse  pistols, 
and,  as  this  recollection  flashed  upon  him,  the  pause  of  delibera- 
tion ceased. 

With  a  swift  step  he  descended  the  first  flight  of  stairs,  and, 
pausing  at  the  chamber  door  of  the  faithful  couple,  knocked 
upon  its  panels  with  a  loud  and  hasty  summons.  The  second 
repetition  of  the  noise  produced  the  sentence,  uttered  in  a  very 
trembling  voice,  of  "Who's  there?" 

"  It  is  I,  Clarence  Linden,"  replied  our  hero  ;  "  lose  no  time 
in  opening  the  door." 

This  answer  seemed  to  reassure  the  valorous  stock-jobber. 
He  slowly  undid  the  bolt,  and  turned  the  key. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  what  do  you  want,  Mr.  Linden?" 
said  he. 

"  Ay,"  cried  a  sharp  voice  from  the  more  internal  recesses 
of  the  chamber,  "  what  do  you  want,  sir,  disturbing  us  in  the 
bosom  of  our  family,  and  at  the  dead  of  night  ?  " 

With  a  rapid  voice,  Clarence  repeated  what  he  had  seen,  and 
requested  the  broker  to  accompany  him  to  Talbot's  house,  OT 
^t  least  to  lend  him  his  pistols. 


90  tHE  DISOWNED. 

"He  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  cried  Mrs.  Copperas.  "Come 
here,  Mr.  C,  and  shut  the  door  directly." 

"Stop,  my  love,"  said  the  stock-jobber,  "  stop  a  moment." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  cried  Clarence,  "  make  no  delay  ;  the 
poor  old  man  may  be  murdered  by  this  time." 

"  It's  no  business  of  mine,"  said  the  stock-jobber. 

"  If  Adolphus  liad  not  broken  the  rattle  I  would  not  have 
minded  the  trouble  of  springing  it ;  but  you  are  very  much 
mistaken  if  you  think  I  am  going  to  leave  my  warm  bed,  in 
order  to  have  my  throat  cut." 

"Then  give  me  your  pistols,"  cried  Clarence;  "I  will  go 
alone." 

"  I  shall  commit  no  such  folly,"  said  the  stock-jobber  ;  "  if 
you  are  murdered,  I  may  have  to  answer  it  to  your  friends,  and 
pay  for  your  burial.  Besides,  you  owe  us  for  your  lodgings  — 
go  to  your  bed,  young  man,  as  I  shall  to  mine."  And  so  say- 
ing, Mr.  Copperas  proceeded  to  close  the  door. 

But  enraged  at  the  brutality  of  the  man,  and  excited  by  the 
urgency  of  the  case,  Clarence  did  not  allow  him  so  peaceable 
a  retreat.  With  a  strong  and  fierce  grasp,  he  seized  the  astonished 
Copperas  by  the  throat,  and  shaking  him  violently,  forced  his 
own  entrance  into  the  sacred  nuptial  chamber. 

"By  Heaven,"  cried  Linden,  in  a  savage  and  stern  tone,  for 
his  blood  was  up,  "  I  will  twist  your  coward's  throat,  and  save 
the  murderer  his  labor,  if  you  do  not  instantly  give  me  up  your 
pistols." 

The  stockjobber  was  panic-stricken,  "Take  them,"  he 
cried  in  the  extremest  terror  ;  "there  they  are  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  close  by." 

"  Are  they  primed  and  loaded?"  said  Linden,  not  relaxing 
his  gripe. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  said  the  stock-jobber,  "  loose  my  throat,  or  you 
will  choke  me  ! "  and,  at  that  instant,  Clarence  felt  himself 
clasped  by  the  invading  hands  of  Mrs.  Copperas. 

"  Call  off  your  wife,"  said  he,  "  or  I  will  choke  you  !  "  and 
he  tightened  his  hold,  "  and  tell  her  to  give  me  the  pistols." 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Copperas  extended  the  debated 
weapons  towards  Clarence.  He  seized  them,  flung  the  poor 
stock-jobber  against  the  bed-post,  hurried  downstairs,  opened 
the  back  door  which  led  into  the  garden,  flew  across  the 
intervening  space,  arrived  at  the  door,  and  entering  Talbot's 
garden,  paused  to  consider  what  was  the  next  step  to  be  taken. 

A  person  equally  brave  as  Clarence,  but  more  cautious,  would 
not  have  left  the  house  without  alarming  Mr.  de  Warens,  even 


THE   DISOWNED.  ^t 

in  spite  of  the  failure  with  his  master  ;  but  Linden  only  thought 
of  the  pressure  of  time,  and  the  necessity  of  expedition,  and  he 
would  have  been  a  very  unworthy  hero  of  romance  had  he  felt 
fear  for  two  antagonists,  with  a  brace  of  pistols  at  his  command, 
and  a  high  and  good  action  in  view. 

After  a  brief,  but  decisive,  halt,  he  proceeded  rapidly  round 
the  house,  in  order  to  ascertain  at  which  part  the  ruffians  had 
admitted  themselves,  should  they  (as  indeed  there  was  little 
doubt)  have  already  effected  their  entrance. 

He  found  the  shutters  of  one  of  the  principal  rooms  on  the 
ground  floor  had  been  opened,  and  through  the  aperture  he 
caught  the  glimpse  of  a  moving  light,  which  was  suddenly 
obscured.  As  he  was  about  to  enter,  the  light  again  flashed 
out  :  he  drew  back  just  in  time,  carefully  screened  himself 
behind  the  shutter,  and,  through  one  of  the  chinks,  observed 
what  passed  within.  Opposite  to  the  window  was  a  door  which 
conducted  to  the  hall  and  principal  staircase  ;  this  door  was 
open,  and  in  the  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Clarence  saw 
two  men  ;  one  carried  a  dark  lantern,  from  which  the  light 
proceeded,  and  some  tools  of  the  nature  of  which  Clarence  was 
naturally  ignorant :  this  was  a  middle-sized,  muscular  man, 
dressed  in  the  rudest  garb  of  an  ordinary  laborer ;  the  other 
was  much  taller  and  younger,  and  his  dress  was  of  rather  a 
less  ignoble  fashion. 

'*  Hist !  hist !  "  said  the  taller  one,  in  a  low  tone,  "  did  you 
not  hear  a  noise,  Ben  ?  " 

"  Not  a  pin  fall  ;  but  stow  your  whids,  man  !  " 

This  was  all  that  Clarence  heard  in  a  connected  form  ;  but 
as  the  wretches  paused,  in  evident  doubt  how  to  proceed,  he 
caught  two  or  three  detached  words,  which  his  ingenuity 
rapidly  formed  into  sentences.  "  No,  no  !  sleeps  to  the  left — 
old  man  above — plate  chest — we  must  have  the  blunt  too. 
Come,  track  up  the  dancers,  and  dowse  the  glim."  And  at  the 
last  words  the  light  was  extinguished,  and  Clarence's  quick  and 
thirsting  ears  caught  their  first  steps  on  the  stairs  as  they  died 
away — and  all  was  hushed. 

It  had  several  times  occurred  to  Clarence  to  rush  from  his 
hiding-place,  and  fire  at  the  ruffians,  and  perhaps  tliat  measure 
would  have  been  the  wisest  he  could  have  taken  ;  but  Clarence 
had  never  discharged  a  pistol  in  his  life,  and  he  felt,  therefore, 
that  his  aim  must  be  uncertain  enough  to  render  a  favorable 
position  and  a  short  distance  essential  requisites.  Both  these 
were,  at  present,  denied  to  him  ;  and  although  he  saw  no 
weapons  about   the   persons  of   the  villains,  yet  he  imagined 


92  THE    DISOWNED. 

they  would  not  have  ventured  on  so  dangerous  an  eJcpedition 
without  firearms  ;  and  if  he  failed,  as  would  have  been  most 
probable,  in  his  two  shots,  he  concluded  that,  though  the 
alarm  would  be  given,  his  own  fate  would  be  inevitable. 

If  this  was  reasoning  upon  false  premises,  for  housebreakers 
seldom  or  never  carry  loaded  fire-arms,  and  never  stay  for 
revenge,  when  their  safety  demands  escape,  Clarence  may  be 
forgiven  for  not  knowing  the  customs  of  housebreakers,  and 
for  not  making  the  very  best  of  an  extremely  novel  and  dan- 
gerous situation. 

No  sooner  did  he  find  himself  in  total  darkness,  than  he 
bitterly  reproached  himself  for  his  late  backwardness,  and, 
inwardly  resolving  not  again  to  miss  any  opportunity  which 
presented  itself,  he  entered  the  window,  groped  along  the  room 
into  the  hall,  and  found  his  way  very  slowly,  and  after  much 
circumlocution,  to  the  staircase. 

He  had  just  gained  the  summit,  when  a  loud  cry  broke  upon 
the  stillness :  it  came  from  a  distance,  and  was  instantly 
hushed  ;  but  he  caught,  at  brief  intervals,  the  sound  of  angry 
and  threatening  voices.  Clarence  bent  down  anxiously,  in  the 
hope  that  some  solitary  ray  would  escape  through  the  crevice 
of  the  door  within  which  the  robbers  were  engaged.  But 
though  the  sounds  came  from  the  same  floor  as  that  on  which 
he  now  trod,  they  seemed  far  and  remote,  and  not  a  gleam  of 
light  broke  the  darkness. 

He  continued,  however,  to  feel  his  way  in  the  direction  from 
which  the  sounds  proceeded,  and  soon  found  himself  in  a 
narrow  gallery  ;  the  voices  seemed  more  loud  and  near  as  he 
advanced  ;  at  last  he  distinctly  heard  the  words  : 

"Will  you  not  confess  where  it  is  placed  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed,"  replied  an  eager  and  earnest  voice,  which 
Clarence  recognized  as  Talbot's,  "  This  is  all  the  money  I  have 
in  the  house — the  plate  is  above — my  servant  has  the  key — take 
it — take  all — but  save  his  life  and  mine." 

"  None  of  your  gammon,"  said  another  and  rougher  voice 
than  rhat  of  the  first  speaker  :  "we  know  you  have  more  blunt 
than  this — a  paltry  sum  of  fifty  pounds,  indeed  !  " 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  the  other  ruffian,  "here  is  a  picture  set  with 
diamonds,  that  will  do,  Ben.     Let  go  the  old  man." 

Clarence  was  now  just  at  hand,  and  probably  from  a  sudden 
change  in  the  position  of  the  dark  lantern  within,  a  light 
abruptly  broke  from  beneath  the  door  and  streamed  along  the 
passage. 

"No,  no,  no  !  "  cried  the  old  man,  in  a  loud  yet  tremulous 


THE  DISOWNED.  9J 

Voice — "No,  not  that,  anything  else,  but  I  will  defend  that 
with  my  life." 

"  Ben,  my  lad,"  said  the  ruffian,  "  twist  the  old  fool's  neck  : 
we  have  no  more  time  to  lose." 

At  that  very  moment  the  door  was  flung  violently  open,  and 
Clarence  Linden  stood  within  three  paces  of  the  reprobates  and 
their  prey.  The  taller  villain  had  a  miniature  in  his  hand,  and  the 
old  man  clung  to  his  legs  with  a  convulsive  but  impotent  clasp: 
the  other  fellow  had  already  his  gripe  upon  Talbot's  neck,  and 
his  right  hand  grasped  a  long  case-knife. 

With  a  fierce  and  flashing  eye,  and  a  cheek  deadly  pale  with 
internal  and  resolute  excitement,  Clarence  confronted  the 
robbers. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  cried  he,  "  I  am  not  too  late  ! "  And 
advancing  yet  another  step  toward  the  shorter  ruffian,  who 
struck  mute  with  the  suddenness  of  the  apparition,  still 
retained  his  grasp  of  the  old  man,  he  fired  his  pistol,  with  a 
steady  and  close  aim  ;  the  ball  penetrated  the  wretch's  brain, 
and  without  sound  or  sigh  he  fell  down  dead,  at  the  very  feet  of 
his  just  destroyer.  The  remaining  robber  had  already  medi- 
tated, and  a  second  more  sufficed  to  accomplish  his  escape. 
He  sprang  towards  the  door  :  the  ball  whizzed  beside  him,  but 
touched  him  not.  With  a  safe  and  swift  step,  long  inured  to 
darkness,  he  fled  along  the  passage  ;  and  Linden,  satisfied  with 
the  vengeance  he  had  taken  upon  his  comrade,  did  not  harass 
him  with  an  unavailing  pursuit. 

Clarence  turned  to  assist  Talbot.  The  old  man  was  stretched 
upon  the  floor  insensible,  but  his  hand  grasped  the  miniature 
which  the  plunderer  had  dropped  in  his  flight  and  tenor,  and 
his  white  and  ashen  lip  was  pressed  convulsively  upon  the 
recovered  treasure. 

Linden  raised  and  placed  him  on  his  bed,  and  while  employed 
in  attempting  to  revive  him,  the  ancient  domestic,  alarmed  by 
the  report  of  the  pistol,  came,  poker  in  hand,  to  his  assistance. 

By  little  and  little  they  recovered  the  object  of  their  attention. 

His  eyes  rolled  wildly  round  the  room,  and  he  muttered  : 

"Off,  off  !  ye  shall  not  rob  me  of  my  only  relic  of  her — 
where  is  it  ? — have  you  got  it  ? — the  picture,  the  picture  ?  " 

"It  is  here,  sir,  it  is  here,"  said  the  old  servant,  "it  is  in 
your  own  hand." 

Talbot's  eye  fell  upon  it  ;  he  gazed  at  it  for  some  moments, 
pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  then,  sitting  erect,  and  looking  wildly 
round,  he  seemed  to  awaken  to  the  sense  of  his  late  danger  and 
his  present  deliverance. 


04  THE   DISOWNEO. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Ah,  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear. 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove, 

With  the  wings  of  care  ! 
In  the  battle — in  the  darkness — in  the  need, 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee! 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love. 

It  may  bring  to  thee  !  "—Shelley. 

LETTER  FROM  ALGERNON  MORDAUNT  TO  ISABEL  ST.  LEGER. 

"You  told  me  not  to  write  to  you.  You  know  how  long,  but 
not  how  uselessly,  I  have  obeyed  you.  Did  you  think,  Isabel, 
that  my  love  was  of  that  worldly  and  common  order  which  re- 
quires a  perpetual  aliment  to  support  it  ?  Did  you  think  that, 
if  you  forbade  the  stream  to  flow  visibly,  its  sources  would  be 
exhausted,  and  its  channels  dried  up?  This  may  be  the  pas- 
sion of  others  ;  it  is  not  mine.  Months  have  passed  since  we 
parted,  and  since  then  you  have  not  seen  me  :  this  letter  is  the 
first  token  you  have  received  from  a  remembrance  which  can- 
not die.  But  do  you  think  that  I  have  not  watched,  and 
tended  upon  you,  and  gladdened  my  eyes  with  gazing  on  your 
beauty,  when  you  have  not  dreamed  that  I  was  by?  Ah,  Isa- 
bel, your  heart  should  have  told  you  of  it — mine  would,  had 
you  been  so  near  me  !  " 

"  You  receive  no  letters  from  me,  it  is  true — think  you  that 
my  hand  and  heart  are  therefore  idle  ?  No.  I  write  to  you  a 
thousand  burning  lines  ;  I  pour  out  my  soul  to  you  :  I  tell  you 
of  all  I  suffer :  my  thoughts,  my  actions,  my  very  dreams,  are 
all  traced  upon  paper.  I  send  them  not  to  you,  but  I  read 
them  over  and  over,  and  when  I  come  to  your  name,  I  pause, 
and  shut  my  eyes,  and  then  'Fancy  has  her  power,'  and  lo  ! 
*  you  are  by  my  side  ! ' 

"  Isabel,  our  love  has  not  been  a  holiday  and  joyous  senti- 
ment ;  but  I  feel  a  solemn  and  unalterable  conviction  that  our 
union  is  ordained. 

"Others  have  many  o])jects  to  distract  and  occupy  the 
thoughts  which  are  once  forbidden  a  single  direction,  but  we 
have  7ioTie.  At  least,  to  me  you  are  everything.  Pleasure, 
splendor,  ambition,  all  are  merged  into  one  great  and  eternal 
thought,  and  that  '\?,you! 

"Others  have  told  me,  and  I  believed  them,  that  I  was  hard, 
and  cold,  and  stern — so  perhaps  I  was  before  I  knew  you,  but 


THE   DISOWNED.  .95 

now  I  am  weaker  and  softer  than  a  child.  There  is  a  stone 
which  is  of  all  the  hardest  and  the  chillest,  but  when  once  set 
on  fire  it  is  unquenchable.  You  smile  at  my  image,  perhaps, 
and  I  should  smile  if  I  saw  it  in  the  writing  of  another  ;  for  all 
that  I  have  ridiculed  in  romance,  as  exaggerated,  seems  now  to 
me  too  cool  and  too  commonplace  for  reality. 

"But  this  is  not  what  I  meant  to  write  to  you  ;  you  are  ill, 
dearest  and  noblest  Isabel,  you  are  ill !  I  am  the  cause,  and 
you  conceal  it  from  me  ;  and  you  would  rather  pine  away  and 
die  than  suffer  me  to  lose  one  of  those  worldly  advantages  which 
are  in  my  eyes  but  as  dust  in  the  balance, — it  is  in  vain  to  deny 
it.  I  heard  from  others  of  your  impaired  health  ;  I  have  wit- 
nessed it  myself.  Do  you  remember  last  night  when  you  were 
in  the  room  with  your  relations,  and  they  made  you  sing — a 
song  too  which  you  used  to  sing  to  me,  and  when  you  came  to 
the  second  stanza  your  voice  failed  you  and  you  burst  into 
tears,  and  they  instead  of  soothing  reproached  and  chid  you, 
and  you  answered  not,  but  wept  on  ?  Isabel,  do  you  remember 
that  a  sound  was  heard  at  the  window  and  a  groan  ?  Even 
they  were  startled,  but  they  thought  it  was  the  wind,  for  the 
night  was  dark  and  stormy,  and  they  saw  not  it  was  / — yes,  ray 
devoted,  my  generous  love,  it  was  I  who  gazed  upon  you,  and 
from  whose  heart  that  voice  of  anguish  was  wrung  ;  and  I  saw 
your  cheek  was  pale  and  thin,  and  that  the  canker  at  the  core 
had  preyed  upon  the  blossom. 

"  Think  you,  after  this,  that  I  could  keep  silence  or  obey  your 
request?  No,  dearest,  no !  Is  not  my  happiness  your  object? 
I  have  the  vanity  to  believe  so  ;  and  am  I  not  the  best  judge 
how  that  happiness  is  to  be  secured  ?  I  tell  you  I  say  it  calmly, 
coldly,  dispassionately — not  from  the  imagination,  not  even 
from  the  heart,  but  solely  from  the  reason  — that  I  can  bear 
everything  rather  that  the  loss  oi  you  ;  and  that  if  the  evil  of 
my  love  scathe  and  destroy  you,  I  shall  consider  and  curse  my- 
self as  your  murderer  !  Save  me  from  this  extreme  of  misery, 
my — yes,  my  Isabel !  I  shall  be  at  the  copse  where  we  have  so 
often  met  before,  to-morrow  at  noon.  You  will  meet  me  ;  and 
if  I  cannot  convince  you,  I  will  not  ask  you  to  h^  persuaded. 

"A.  M." 

And  Isabel  read  this  letter,  and  placed  it  at  her  heart,  and 

felt  less  miserable  than  she  had  done  for  months ;  for,  though 
she  wept,  there  was  sweetness  in  the  tears  which  the  assurance 
of  his  love,  and  the  tenderness  of  his  remonstrance,  had  called 
forth.     3he  met  him — how  could  she  refuse  ?  and  the  struggle 


96  THE    DISOWNED. 

was  past.  Though  not  "convinced  "  she  was  "persuaded"; 
for  her  heart,  which  refused  his  reasonings,  melted  at  his  re- 
proaches and  his  grief.  But  she  would  not  consent  to  unite  her 
fate  with  him  at  once,  for  the  evils  of  that  step  to  his  interests 
were  immediate  and  near ;  she  was  only  persuaded  to  permit 
their  correspondence  and  occasional  meetings,  in  which,  how- 
ever imprudent  they  might  be  for  herself,  the  disadvantages  to 
her  lover  were  distant  and  remote.  It  was  of  him  only  that  she 
thought :  for  him  she  trembled  ;  for  him  she  was  the  coward 
and  the  woman  :  for  herself  she  had  no  fears  and  no  forethought. 

And  Algernon  was  worthy  of  this  devoted  love,  and  returned 
it  as  it  was  given.  Man's  love,  in  general,  is  a  selfish  and  ex- 
acting sentiment  :  it  demands  every  sacrifice,  and  refuses  all. 
But  the  nature  of  Mordaunt  was  essentially  high  and  disinter- 
ested, and  his  honor,  like  his  love,  was  not  that  of  the  world: 
it  was  the  ethereal  and  spotless  honor  of  a  lofty  and  generous 
mind,  the  honor  which  custom  can  neither  give  nor  take  away; 
and,  however  impatiently  he  bore  the  deferring  of  an  union,  in 
which  he  deemed  that  he  was  the  only  sufferer,  he  would  not 
have  uttered  a  sigh  or  urged  a  prayer  for  that  union,  could  it, 
in  the  minutest  or  remotest  degree,  have  injured  or  degrad- 
ed her. 

These  are  the  hearts  and  natures  which  make  life  beautiful ; 
these  are  the  shrines  which  sanctify  love  :  these  are  the  divi- 
ner spirits  for  whom  there  is  kindred  and  commune  with  every- 
thing exalted  and  holy  in  heaven  and  earth.  For  them  Nature 
unfolds  her  hoarded  poetry,  and  her  hidden  spells  :  for  their 
steps  are  the  lonely  mountains,  and  the  still  woods  have  a  mur- 
mur for  their  ears  :  for  them  there  is  strange  music  in  the  wave, 
and  in  the  whispers  of  the  light  leaves,  and  rapture  in  the  voices 
of  the  birds  :  their  souls  drink,  and  are  saturated  with  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Universal  Spirit,  which  the  philosophy  of  old  times 
believed  to  be  God  himself.  They  look  upon  the  sky  with  a 
gifted  vision,  and  its  dove-like  quiet  descends  and  overshadows 
their  hearts  :  the  Moon  and  the  Night  are  to  them  wells  of 
Castalian  inspiration  and  golden  dreams  ;  and  it  was  one  of 
them,  who,  gazing  upon  the  Evening  Star,  felt  in  the  inmost 
sanctuary  of  his  soul,  its  mysterious  harmonies  with  his  most 
worshipped  hope,  his  most  passionate  desire,  and  dedicated  it 
to — Love. 


THE   DISOWNED.  97 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Maria,  Here's  the  brave  old  man's  love, 
Bianca.  That  loves  the  young  man. 

The  Woman's  Prize  :  or,  the  Tamer  Tamect. 

"No,  my  dear  Clarence,  you  have  placed  confidence  in  me, 
and  it  is  now  my  duty  to  return  it  ;  you  have  told  me  your  his- 
tory and  origin,  and  I  will  inform  you  of  mine,  but  not  yet.  At 
present  we  will  talk  of  you.  You  have  conferred  upon  me  what 
our  universal  love  of  life  makes  us  regard  as  the  greatest  of  hu- 
man obligations  ;  and  though  I  can  bear  a  large  burden  of 
gratitude,  yet  I  must  throw  off  an  atom  or  two,  in  using  my 
little  power  in  your  behalf.  Nor  is  this  all :  your  history  has 
also  given  you  another  tie  upon  my  heart,  and  in  granting  you  a 
legitimate  title  to  my  good  offices,  removes  any  scruple  you 
might  otherwise  have  had  in  accepting  them. 

"I  have  just  received  this  letter  from  Lord ,  the  minis- 
ter for  foreign  affairs  :  you  will  see  that  he  has  appointed  you 

to  the  office  of  attachd  zX .     You  will  also  oblige  me  by 

looking  over  this  other  letter  at  your  earliest  convenience ;  the 
trifling  sum  which  it  contains  will  be  repeated  every  quarter  : 
it  will  do  very  well  for  an  attache :  when  you  are  an  ambassa- 
dor, why,  we  must  equip  you  by  a  mortgage  on  Scarsdale  ;  and 
now,  my  dear  Clarence,  tell  me  all  about  the  Copperases." 

I  need  not  say  who  was  the  speaker  of  the  above  sentences  : 
sentences,  apparently  of  a  very  agreeable  nature  ;  nevertheless, 
Clarence  seemed  to  think  otherwise,  for  the  tears  gushed  into 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  unable  for  several  minutes  to  reply. 

"  Come,  my  young  friend,"  said  Talbot  kindly  ;  "  I  have  no 
near  relations  among  whom  I  can  choose  a  son  I  like  better 
than  you,  nor  you  any  at  present  from  whom  you  might  select 
a  more  desirable  father,  consequently,  you  must  let  me  look 
upon  you  as  my  own  flesh  and  blood  ;  and,  as  I  intend  to  be  a 
very  strict  and  peremptory  father,  I  expect  the  most  silent  and 
scrupulous  obedience  to  my  commands.  My  first  parental 
order  to  you  is  to  put  up  those  papers,  and  to  say  nothing  more 
about  them  ;  for  I  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  to  you  about  upon 
other  subjects." 

And  by  these  and  similar  kind-hearted  and  delicate  remon- 
strances, the  old  man  gained  his  point.  From  that  moment 
Clarence  looked  upon  him  with  the  grateful  and  venerating  love 
of  a  son  ;  and  I  question  very  much,  if  Talbot  had  really  been 


98  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  father  of  our  hero,  whether  he  would  have  liked  so  hand- 
some a  successor  half  so  well. 

The  day  after  this  arrangement,  Clarence  paid  his  debt  to 
the  Copperases,  and  removed  to  Talbot's  house.  With  this 
event  commenced  a  new  era  in  his  existence  :  he  was  no  longer 
an  outcast  and  a  wanderer :  out  of  alien  ties  he  had  wrought 
the  link  of  a  close  and  even  paternal  friendship  :  life,  brilliant 
in  its  prospects,  and  elevated  in  its  ascent,  opened  flatteringly 
before  him  ;  and  the  fortune  and  courage,  which  had  so  well 
provided  for  the  present,  were  the  best  omens  and  auguries  for 
the  future. 

One  evening,  when  the  opening  autumn  had  made  its  ap- 
proaches felt,  and  Linden  and  his  new  parent  were  seated  alone 
by  a  blazing  fire,  and  had  come  to  a  full  pause  in  their  conver- 
sation, Talbot,  shading  his  face  with  the  friendly  pages  of  the 
"  Whitehall  Evening  Paper,"  as  if  to  protect  it  from  the  heat, 
said  : 

**  I  told  you,  the  other  day,  that  I  would  give  you,  at  some 
early  opportunity,  a  brief  sketch  of  m-y  life.  This  confidence 
is  due  to  you  in  return  for  yours  ;  and  since  you  will  soon  leave 
nie,  and  I  am  an  old  man,  whose  life  no  prudent  calculation 
can  fix,  I  may  as  well  choose  the  present  time  to  favor  you  with 
my  confessions." 

Clarence  expressed  and  looked  his  interest,  and  the  old  man 
thus  commenced  : 

THE    HISTORY    OF    A    VAIN    MAN. 

"  I  was  the  favorite  of  my  parents,  for  I  was  quick  at  my 
lessons,  and  my  father  said  I  inherited  my  genius  from  him  ; 
and  comely  in  my  person,  and  my  mother  said  that  my  good 
looks  came  from  her.  So  the  honest  pair  saw  in  their  eldest 
son  the  union  of  their  own  attractions,  and  thought  they 
were  making  much  of  themselves  when  they  lavished  their  ca- 
resses upon  me.  They  had  another  son,  poor  Arthur — I  think 
I  see  him  now  !  He  was  a  shy,  quiet,  subdued  boy,  of  a  very 
plain  personal  appearance.  My  father  and  mother  were  vain, 
showy,  ambitious  people  of  the  world,  and  they  were  as  ashamed 
of  my  brother  as  they  were  proud  of  myself.  However,  he  after- 
wards entered  the  army,  and  distinguished  himself  highly.  He 
died  in  battle,  leaving  an  only  daughter,  who  married,  as  you 
kno7V,  a  nobleman  of  high  rank.  Her  subsequent  fate  it  is  now 
needless  to  relate. 

"  Petted  and  pampered  from  my  childhood,  I  grew  up  with 
a  profound  belief  in  my  own  excellences,  and  3.  feverish  and  ir- 


THE    DISOWNED.  99 

ritatlng  desire  to  impress  every  one  who  came  in  my  way  with 
the  same  idea.  There  is  a  sentence  in  Sir  William  Temple, 
which  I  have  often  thought  of  with  a  painful  conviction  of  its 
truth  :  *  A  restlessness  in  men's  minds  to  be  something  they  are 
not,  and  to  have  something  they  have  not,  is  the  root  of  all  im« 
morality.'  *  At  school,  I  was  confessedly  the  cleverest  boy  in 
my  remove  ;  and,  what  I  valued  equally  as  much,  I  vi'as  the 
best  cricketer  of  the  best  eleven.  Here,  then,  you  will  say  my 
vanity  was  satisfied — no  such  thing !  There  was  a  boy  who 
shared  my  room,  and  was  next  me  in  the  school  ;  we  were, 
therefore,  always  thrown  together.  He  was  a  great,  stupid, 
lubberly  cub,  equally  ridiculed  by  the  masters,  and  disliked  by 
the  boys  :  will  you  believe  that  this  individual  was  the  express 
and  almost  sole  object  of  my  envy  ?  He  was  more  than  my 
rival,  he  was  my  superior  ;  and  I  hated  him  with  all  the  unleav- 
ened bitterness  of  my  soul. 

"  I  have  said  he  was  my  superior — it  was  in  one  thing.  He 
could  balance  a  stick,  nay,  a  cricket-bat,  a  poker,  upon  his 
chin,  and  I  could  not  ;  you  laugh,  and  so  can  I  now,  but  it  was 
no  subject  of  laughter  to  me  then.  This  circumstance,  trifling 
as  it  may  appear  to  you,  poisoned  my  enjoyment.  The  boy 
saw  my  envy,  for  I  could  not  conceal  it ;  and  as  all  fools  are 
malicious,  and  most  fools  ostentatious,  he  took  a  particular 
pride  and  pleasure  in  displaying  his  dexterity,  and  'showing  off  ' 
my  discontent.  You  can  form  no  idea  of  the  extent  to  which 
this  petty  insolence  vexed  and  disquieted  me.  Even  in  my 
sleep,  the  clumsy  and  grinning  features  of  this  tormenting  imp 
haunted  me  like  a  spectre  ;  my  visions  were  nothing  but  chins 
and  cricket-bats  ;  walking  sticks  sustaining  themselves  upon 
human  excrescences,  and  pokers  dancing  a  hornpipe  upon  the 
tip  of  a  nose.  I  assure  you  that  I  have  spent  hours  in  secret 
seclusion,  practicing  to  rival  my  hated  comrade,  and  my  face — 
see  how  one  vanity  quarrels  with  another — was  little  better  than 
a  map  of  bruises  and  discolorations. 

"  1  actually  became  so  uncomfortable  as  to  write  home  and 
request  to  leave  the  school.  I  was  then  about  sixteen,  and  my 
indulgent  father,  in  granting  my  desire,  told  me  that  I  was  too 
old  and  too  advanced  in  my  learning  to  go  to  any  other  aca- 
demic establishment  than  the  University.  The  day  before  I 
left  the  school,  I  gave,  as  was  usually  the  custom,  a  breakfast 
to  all  my  friends  ;  the  circumstance  of  my  tormentor's  sharing 
my  room  obliged  me  to  invite  him  among  the  rest.  However, 
I  was  in  high  spirits,  and  being  an  universal  favorite  with  my 

*  And  of  all  good. — Author. 


too  THE   DISOWNED. 

schoolfellows,  I  succeeded  in  what  was  always  to  me  an  object 
of  social  ambition,  and  set  the  table  on  a  roar ;  yet,  when  our 
festival  was  nearly  expired,  and  I  began  to  allude  more  particu- 
larly to  my  approaching  departure,  my  vanity  was  far  more 
gratified,  for  my  feelings  were  far  more  touched,  by  observing 
the  regret  and  receiving  the  good  wishes  of  all  my  companions. 
I  still  recall  that  hour  as  one  of  the  proudest  and  happiest  of 
my  life  ;  but  it  had  its  immediate  reverse.  My  evil  demon  put 
it  into  my  tormentor's  head  to  give  me  one  last  parting  pang  of 
jealousy.  A  large  umbrella  happened  accidentally  to  be  in  my 
room  ;  Crompton — such  was  my  schoolfellow's  name — saw  and 
seized  it ;  '  Look,  Talbot,'  said  he,  with  his  taunting  and  hideous 
sneer, 'you  can't  do  this';  and  placing  the  point  of  the  um- 
brella upon  his  forehead,  just  above  the  eyebrow,  he  performed 
various  antics  around  the  room. 

"At  that  moment  I  was  standing  by  the  fire-place  and  con- 
versing with  two  boys  upon  whom,  above  all  others,  I  wished 
to  leave  a  favorable  impression.  My  foolish  soreness  on  this 
one  subject  had  been  often  remarked,  and  as  I  turned,  in  abrupt 
and  awkward  discomposure,  from  the  exhibition,  I  observed 
my  two  schoolfellows  smile  and  exchange  looks.  I  am  not 
naturally  passionate,  and  even  at  that  age  I  had,  in  ordinary 
cases,  great  self-command  ;  but  this  observation,  and  the  cause 
which  led  to  it,  threw  me  off  my  guard.  Whenever  we  are  ut- 
terly under  the  command  of  one  feeling  we  cannot  be  said  to 
have  our  reason  ;  at  that  instant  1  literally  believe  I  was  beside 
myself.  What  !  in  the  very  flush  of  the  last  triumph  that  that 
scene  would  ever  afford  me  ;  amidst  the  last  regrets  of  my  early 
friends,  to  whom  I  fondly  hoped  to  bequeath  a  long  and  brilliant 
remembrance,  to  be  thus  bearded  by  a  contemptible  rival,  and 
triumphed  over  by  a  pitiful,  yet  insulting,  superiority  ;  to  close 
my  condolences  with  laughter ;  to  have  the  final  solemnity  of 
my  career  thus  terminating  in  mockery,  and  ridicule  substituted 
as  an  ultimate  reminiscence  in  the  place  of  an  admiring  regret; 
all  this,  too,  to  be  effected  by  one  so  long  hated,  one  whom  I 
was  the  only  being  forbidden  the  comparative  happiness  of  de- 
spising? I  could  not  brook  it  ;  the  insult — the  insulter  were 
too  revolting.  As  the  unhappy  buffoon  approached  me,  thrust- 
ing his  distorted  face  towards  mine,  I  seized  and  pushed  him 
aside,  with  a  brief  curse  and  a  violent  hand.  The  sharp  point 
of  the  umbrella  slipped  ;  my  action  gave  it  impetus  and  weight : 
it  penetrated  his  eye,  and — spare  me,  spare  me  the  rest."* 

*  This  instance  of  vanity,  and,  indeeU,  the  whole  of  Talbot's  history,  is  literally  from 
facts. 


THE  DISOWNED.  lOl 

The  old  man  bent  down  and  paused  for  a  few  moments  be- 
fore he  resumed. 

"Crompton  lost  his  eye,  but  my  punishment  was  as  severe 
as  his.  People  who  are  very  vain  are  usually  equally  sus- 
ceptible, and  they  who  feel  one  thing  acutely  will  so  feel 
another.  For  years,  aye,  for  many  years  afterwards,  the  recol- 
lection of  my  folly  goaded  me  with  the  bitterest  and  most  un- 
ceasing remorse.  Had  I  committed  murder,  my  conscience 
could  scarce  have  afflicted  me  more  severely.  I  did  not  regain 
my  self-esteem  till  I  had  somewhat  repaired  the  injury  I  had 
done.  Long  after  that  time  Crompton  was  in  prison,  in  great 
and  overwlielming  distress.  I  impoverished  myself  to  release 
him  ;  I  sustained  him  and  his  family  till  fortune  rendered  my 
assistance  no  longer  necessary  ;  and  no  triumphs  were  ever 
more  sweet  to  me  than  the  sacrifices  I  was  forced  to  submit  to 
in  order  to  restore  him  to  prosperity. 

"  It  is  natural  to  hope  that  this  accident  had,  at  least,  the 
effect  of  curing  me  of  my  fault  ;  but  it  requires  philosophy  in 
yourself,  or  your  advisers,  to  render  remorse  of  future  avail. 
How  could  I  amend  my  fault,  when  I  was  not  even  aware  of 
it  ?  Smarting  under  the  effects,  I  investigated  not  the  cause, 
and  I  attributed  to  irascibility  and  vindictiveness  what  had  a 
deeper  and  more  dangerous  origin. 

"At  college,  in  spite  of  all  my  advantages  of  birth,  fortune, 
health,  and  intellectual  acquirements,  I  had  many  things  besides 
the  one  enemy  of  remorse  to  corrode  my  tranquillity  of  mind. 
I  was  sure  to  find  some  one  to  excel  me  in  something,  and  this 
wes  enough  to  embitter  my  peace.  Our  living  Goldsmith  is  my 
favorite  poet,  and  I  perhaps  insensibly  venerate  the  genius  the 
more  because  I  find  something  congenial  in  the  infirmities  of 
the  man.  /  can  fully  credit  the  anecdotes  recorded  of  him.  / 
too  could  once  have  been  jealous  of  a  puppet  handling  a  spon- 
toon  ;  /  too  could  once  have  been  miserable  if  two  ladies  at  the 
theatre  were  more  the  objects  of  attention  than  myself !  You, 
Clarence,  will  not  despise  me  for  this  confession  ;  those  who 
knew  me  less  would.  Fools  !  there  is  no  man  so  great  as  not 
to  have  some  littleness  more  predominant  than  all  his  greatness. 
Our  virtues  are  the  dupes,  and  often  only  the  playthings,  of  our 
follies ! 

"  I  entered  the  world — with  what  advantages,  and  what  avid- 
ity !  I  smile,  but  it  is  mournfully,  in  looking  back  to  that  day. 
Though  rich,  high-born,  and  good-looking,  I  possessed  not  one 
of  these  three  qualities  in  that  eminence  which  could  alone 
satisfy  my  love  of  superiority  and  desire  of  effect.     I  knew  this 


102  THE   DISOWNED. 

somewhat  humiliating  truth,  for,  though  vain,  I  was  not  con. 
ceited.  Vanity,  indeed,  is  the  very  antidote  to  conceit ;  for, 
while  the  former  makes  us  all  nerve  to  the  opinion  of  others, 
the  latter  is  perfectly  satisfied  with  its  opinion  of  itself. 

"  I  knew  this  truth,  and  as  Pope,  if  he  could  not  be  the 
greatest  of  poets,  resolved  to  be  the  most  correct,  so  I  strove, 
since  I  could  not  be  the  handsomest,  the  wealthiest,  and  the 
noblest  of  my  contemporaries,  to  excel  them,  at  least,  in  the 
grace  and  consummateness  of  manner;  and  in  tliis,  after 
incredible  pains,  after  diligent  apprenticeship  in  the  world, 
and  intense  study  in  the  closet,  I  at  last  flattered  myself  that  I 
had  succeeded.  Of  all  success,  while  we  are  yet  in  the  flush 
of  youth,  and  its  capacities  of  enjoyment,  I  can  imagine  none 
more  intoxicating  or  gratifying  than  the  success  of  society,  and 
1  had  certainly  some  years  of  its  triumph  and  iclat.  I  was 
courted,  followed,  flattered,  and  sought  by  the  most  envied 
and  fastidious  circles  in  England,  and  even  in  Paris ;  for 
society,  so  indifferent  to  those  who  disdain  it,  overwhelms  with 
its  gratitude — profuse  though  brief — those  who  devote  them- 
selves to  its  amusement.  The  victim  to  sameness  and  ennut, 
it  offers,  like  the  pallid  and  luxurious  Roman,  a  reward  for  a 
new  pleasure  ;  and,  as  long  as  our  industry  or  talent  can  afford 
the  pleasure;  the  reward  is  ours.  At  that  time,  then,  I  reaped 
the  full  harvest  of  my  exertions  ;  the  disappointment  and  vex- 
ation were  of  later  date. 

"  I  now  come  to  the  great  era  of  my  life — Love.  Among 
rtiy  acquaintance  was  Lady  Mary  Walden,  a  widow  of  high 
birth,  and  noble,  though  not  powerful  connections.  She  lived 
about  twenty  miles  from  London,  in  a  beautiful  retreat ;  and, 
though  not  rich,  her  jointure,  rendered  ample  by  economy, 
enabled  her  to  indulge  her  love  of  society.  Her  house  was 
always  as  full  as  its  size  would  permit,  and  I  was  among  the 
most  welcome  of  its  visitors.  She  had  an  only  daughter — even 
now,  through  the  dim  mists  of  years,  that  beautiful  and  fairy 
form  rises  still  and  shining  before  me,  undinimed  by  sorrow, 
unfaded  by  time.  Caroline  Walden  was  the  object  of  general 
admiration,  and  her  mother,  who  attributed  the  avidity  with 
which  her  invitations  were  accepted  by  all  the  wits  and  fine 
gentlemen  of  the  day  to  the  charms  of  her  own  conversation, 
little  suspected  the  face  and  wit  of  her  daughter  to  be  the 
magnet  of  attraction.  I  had  no  idea  at  that  time  of  marriage, 
still  less  could  I  have  entertained  such  a  notion,  unless  the 
step  had  greatly  exalted  my  rank  and  prospects. 

"  The  poor  and  powerless  Caroline  Walden  was  therefore  the 


THE    DISOWNED.  I03 

last  person  for  whom  I  had  what  the  jargon  of  mothers  terms 
'serious  intentions.*  However,  I  was  struck  with  her  exceed- 
ing loveliness,  and  amused  by  the  vivacity  of  her  manners ; 
moreover,  my  vanity  was  excited  by  the  hope  of  distancing  all 
my  competitors  for  the  smiles  of  the  young  beauty.  Accord- 
ingly I  set  myself  out  to  please,  and  neglected  none  of  those 
subtle  and  almost  secret  attentions  which,  of  all  flatteries,  are 
the  most  delicate  and  successful :  and  I  succeeded.  Caroline 
loved  me  with  all  the  earnestness  and  devotion  which  charac- 
terize the  love  of  woman.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  I 
was  only  trifling  with  those  affections  which  it  seemed  so 
ardently  my  intention  to  win.  She  knew  that  my  fortune  was 
large  enough  to  dispense  with  the  necessity  of  fortune  with  my 
wife,  and  in  birth  she  would  have  equalled  men  of  greater  pre- 
tensions to  myself  ;  added  to  this,  long  adulation  had  made 
her  sensible,  though  not  vain,  of  her  attractions,  and  she  lis- 
tened with  a  credulous  ear  to  the  insinuated  flatteries  I  was  so 
well  accustomed  to  instil. 

"  Never  shall  I  forget — no,  though  I  double  my  present 
years — the  shock,  the  wildness  of  despair  with  which  she  first 
detected  the  selfishness  of  my  homage  ;  with  which  she  saw 
that  I  had  only  mocked  her  trusting  simplicity ;  and  that 
while  sh«  had  been  lavishing  the  richest  treasures  of  her  heart 
before  the  burning  altars  of  Love,  my  idol  had  been  Vanity, 
and  my  offerings  deceit.  She  tore  herself  from  the  profana- 
tion of  my  grasp ;  she  shrouded  herself  from  my  presence. 
All  interviews  with  me  were  rejected  ;  all  my  letters  returned 
to  me  unopened  ;  and  though,  in  the  repentance  of  my  heart, 
I  entreated,  I  urged  her  to  accept  vows  that  were  no  longer 
insincere,  her  pride  became  her  punishment,  as  well  as  my 
own.  In  a  moment  of  bitter  and  desperate  feeling,  she  ac- 
cepted the  offers  of  another,  and  made  the  marriage  bond  a 
fatal  and  irrevocable  barrier  to  our  reconciliation  and  union. 

*'0h  !  how  I  now  cursed  my  infatuation  ;  how  passionately 
I  recalled  the  past !  how  coldly  I  turned  from  the  hollow  and 
false  world,  to  whose  service  I  had  sacrificed  my  happiness, 
to  muse  and  madden  over  the  prospects  I  had  destroyed,  and 
the  loving  and  noble  heart  I  had  rejected  !  Alas  !  after  all, 
what  is  so  ungrateful  as  that  world  for  which  we  renounce  so 
much !  Its  votaries  resemble  the  Gymnosophists  of  old,  and 
while  they  profess  to  make  their  chief  end  pleasure,  we  can 
only  learn  that  they  expose  themselves  to  every  torture  and 
every  pain  ! 

"  Lord  Merton,  the  man  whom  Caroline  now  called  husband, 


I04  THE    DISOWNED. 

was  among  the  wealthiest  and  most  dissipated  of  his  order ; 
and  two  years  after  our  separation  I  met  once  more  with  the 
victim  of  my  unworthiness,  blazing  in  *  the  full  front'  of 
courtly  splendor !  the  leader  of  its  gaieties,  and  the  cynosure 
of  her  followers.  Intimate  with  the  same  society,  we  were  per- 
petually cast  together,  and  Caroline  was  proud  of  displaying 
the  indifference  towards  me,  which,  if  she  felt  not,  she  had  at 
least  learnt  artfully  to  assume.  This  indifference  was  her 
ruin.  The  depths  of  my  evil  passion  were  again  sounded  and 
aroused,  and  I  resolved  yet  to  humble  the  pride  and  conquer 
the  coldness  which  galled  to  the  very  quick  the  morbid  acute- 
ness  of  my  self-love.  I  again  attached  myself  to  her  train — I 
bowed  myself  to  the  very  dust  before  her.  What  to  me  were 
her  chilling  reply  and  disdainful  civilities  ? — only  still  stronger 
excitements  to  persevere. 

"I  spare  you  and  myself  the  gradual  progress  of  my 
schemes.  A  woman  may  recover  her  first  passion,  it  is  true  ;  but 
then  she  must  replace  it  with  another.  That  other  was  denied 
to  Caroline ;  she  had  not  even  children  to  engross  her 
thoughts  and  to  occupy  her  affections;  and  the  gay  world, 
which  to  many  becomes  an  object,  was  to  her  only  an  escape. 

"  Clarence,  my  triumph  came !  Lady  Walden  (who  had 
never  known  our  secret)  invited  me  to  her  house  ;  Caroline 
was  there.  In  the  same  spot  where  we  had  so  often  stood 
before,  and  in  which  her  earliest  affections  were  insensibly 
breathed  away,  in  that  same  spot  I  drew  from  her  colorless 
and  trembling  lips  t«he  confession  of  her  weakness,  the  restored 
and  pervading  power  of  my  remembrance. 

"  But  Caroline  was  a  proud  and  virtuous  woman ;  even 
while  her  heart  betrayed  her,  her  mind  resisted  ;  and  in  the 
very  avowal  of  her  unconquered  attachment,  she  renounced 
and  discarded  me  forever.  I  am  not  an  ungenerous,  though  a 
vain  man  ;  but  my  generosity  was  wayward,  tainted,  and  im- 
perfect. I  could  have  borne  the  separation  ;  I  could  have  sev- 
ered myself  from  her  ;  I  could  have  flown  to  the  uttermost 
parts  of  the  earth ;  I  could  have  hoarded  there  my  secret, 
yet  unextinguished  love,  and  never  disturbed  her  quiet  by  a 
murmur ;  but  then  the  fiat  of  separation  must  have  come  from 
me !  My  vanity  could  not  bear  that  her  lips  should  reject  me ; 
that  my  part  was  not  to  be  the  nobility  of  sacrifice,  but  the 
submission  of  resignation.  However,  my  better  feelings  were 
aroused,  and  though  I  could  not  stifle,  I  concealed,  my  selfish 
repinings.  We  parted  :  she  returned  to  town,  I  buried  myself 
in  the  country ;    and,  amidst  the   literary  studies   to   which, 


THE    DISOWNED.  I05 

though  by  fits  and  starts,  I  was  passionately  devoted,  I  endeav- 
ored to  forget  my  ominous  and  guilty  love. 

*^  But  I  was  then  too  closely  bound  to  the  world  not  to  be 
perpetually  reminded  of  its  events.  My  retreat  was  thronged 
with  occasional  migrators  from  London ;  my  books  were 
mingled  with  the  news  and  scandal  of  the  day.  All  spoke  to 
me  of  Lady  Merton  ;  not  as  I  loved  to  picture  her  to  myself, 
pale  and  sorrowful,  and  brooding  over  my  image  ;  but  gay, 
dissipated,  the  dispenser  of  smiles,  the  prototype  of  joy.  I  con- 
trasted this  account  of  her  with  the  melancholy  and  gloom  of 
my  own  feelings,  and  I  resented  her  seeming  happiness  as  an 
insult  to  myself. 

"  In  this  angry  and  fretful  mood  I  returned  to  London.  My 
empire  was  soon  resumed  ;  and  now,  Linden,  comes  the  most 
sickening  part  of  my  confessions.  Vanity  is  a  growing  and 
insatiable  disease  :  what  seems  to  its  desires  as  wealth  to-day, 
to-morrow  it  rejects  as  poverty.  I  was  at  first  contented  to 
know  that  I  was  beloved  ;  by  degrees,  slow,  yet  sure,  I  desired 
that  others  should  know  it  also.  I  longed  to  display  my  power 
over  the  celebrated  and  courted  Lady  Merton,  and  to  put  the 
last  crown  to  my  reputation  and  importance.  The  envy  of 
others  is  the  food  of  our  own  self-love.  Oh,  you  know  not,  you 
dream  not,  of  the  galling  mortifications  to  which  a  proud 
woman,  whose  love  commands  her  pride,  is  subjected  !  I  im- 
posed upon  Caroline  the  most  humiliating,  the  most  painful 
.trials  ;  I  would  allow  her  to  see  none  but  those  I  pleased  ;  to 
go  to  no  place  where  I  withheld  my  consent ;  and  I  hesitated 
not  to  exert  and  testify  my  power  over  her  affections,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  publicity  of  the  opportunity. 

"Yet,  with  all  this  littleness,  would  you  believe  that  I  loved 
Caroline  with  the  most  ardent  and  engrossing  passion  ?  I  have 
paused  behind  her,  in  order  to  kiss  the  ground  she  trod  on  ;  I 
have  staid  whole  nights  beneath  her  window,  to  catch  one 
glimpse  of  her  passing  form,  even  though  1  had  spent  hours  of 
the  day-time  in  her  society ;  and,  though  my  love  burned  and 
consumed  me,  like  a  fire,  I  would  not  breathe  a  single  wish 
against  her  innocence,  or  take  advantage  of  my  power  to  ac- 
complish what  I  knew,  from  her  virtue  and  pride,  no  atone- 
ment could  possibly  repay.  Such  are  the  inconsistencies  of  the 
heart,  and  such,  Avhile  they  prevent  our  perfection,  redeem  us 
from  the  utterness  of  vice  !  Never,  even  in  my  wildest  days, 
was  I  blind  to  the  glory  of  virtue,  yet  never,  till  my  latest  years, 
have  I  enjoyed  the  faculty  to  avail  myself  of  my  perception. 
I  resembled  the  mole,  which  by  Boyle  is  supposed  to  possess 


lob  THE    DISOWNED. 

the  idea  of  light,  but  to  be  unable  to  comprehend  the  objects 
on  which  it  shines, 

"Among  the  varieties  of  my  prevailing  sin  was  a  weakness, 
common  enough  to  worldly  men.  While  I  ostentatiously  played 
off  the  love  I  had  excited,  I  could  not  bear  to  show  the  love  I 
felt.  In  our  country,  and  perhaps,  though  in  a  less  degree,  in  all 
other  highly  artificial  states,  enthusiasm,  or  even  feeling  of  any 
kind,  is  ridiculous  ;  and  I  could  not  endure  the  thought  that 
my  treasured  and  secret  affections  should  be  dragged  from  their 
retreat,  to  be  cavilled  and  carped  at  by 

'  Every  beardless,  vain  comparative.' 

*'  This  weakness  brought  on  the  catastrophe  of  my  love  ;  for, 
mark  me,  Clarence,  it  is  through  our  weaknesses  that  our  vices 
are  punished  !  One  night  I  went  to  a  masquerade  ;  and,  while 
I  was  sitting  in  a  remote  corner,  three  of  my  acquaintances, 
whom  I  recognized,  though  they  knew  it  not,  approached  and 
rallied  me  upon  my  7-omantic  attachment  to  Lady  Merton.  One 
of  them  was  a  woman  of  a  malicious  and  sarcastic  wit ;  the 
other  two  were  men  whom  I  disliked,  because  their  pretensions 
interfered  with  mine  ;  they  were  diners-out,  and  anecdote- 
mongers.  Stung  to  the  quick  by  their  sarcasm  and  laughter,  I 
replied  in  a  train  of  mingled  arrogance  and  jest ;  at  last  I  spoke 
slightingly  of  the  person  in  question  ;  and  these  profane  and 
false  lips  dared  not  only  to  disown  the  faintest  love  to  that 
being  who  was  more  to  me  than  all  on  earth,  but  even  to  speak 
of  herself  with  ridicule,  and  her  affection  with  disdain. 

"  In  the  midst  of  this,  I  turned  and  beheld,  within  hearing, 
a  figure  whicli  I  knew  upon  the  moment.  O  heaven  !  the 
burning  shame  and  agony  of  that  glance  ! — It  raised  its  mask — 
I  saw  that  blanched  clieek,  and  that  trembling  lip  !  and  I 
knew  that  the  iron  had  indeed  entered  into  her  soul. 

"  Clarence,  I  never  beheld  her  again  alive.  Within  a  week 
from  that  time  she  was  a  corpse.  She  had  borne  much,  suf- 
fered much,  and  murmured  not  ;  but  this  shock  pressed  too 
hard,  came  too  home,  and  from  the  hand  of  him  for  whom  she 
would  have  sacrificed  all  !  I  stood  by  her  in  death  ;  I  beheld 
my  work  ;  and  I  turned  away,  a  wanderer  and  a  pilgrim  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth.     Verily,  I  have  had  my  reward." 

The  old  man  paused,  in  great  emotion  ;  and  Clarence,  who 
could  offer  him  no  consolation,  did  not  break  the  silence.  In 
a  few  minutes  Talbot  continued  : 

"From  that  time,  the  smile  of  woman  was  nothing  to  me  ;  I 
seemed  to  grow  old  in  a  single  day.     Life  lost  to  me  all  its 


THE    DISOWNED.  IO7 

objects.  A  dreary  and  desert  blank  stretched  itself  before  me — - 
the  sounds  of  creation  had  only  in  my  ears  one  voice — the  past, 
the  future,  one  image.  I  left  ray  country  for  twenty  years,  and 
lived  an  idle  and  hopeless  man  in  the  various  courts  of  the 
continent. 

"  At  the  age  of  fifty  I  returned  to  England  ;  the  wounds  of 
the  past  had  not  disappeared,  but  they  were  scarred  over  ;  and 
I  longed,  like  the  rest  of  my  species,  to  have  an  object  in  view. 
At  that  age,  if  we  have  seen  much  of  mankind,  and  possess  the 
talents  to  profit  by  our  knowledge,  we  must  be  one  of  two  sects  : 
a  politician  or  a  philosopher.  My  time  was  not  yet  arrived  for 
the  latter,  so  I  resolved  to  become  the  former  ;  but  this  was 
denied  me,  for  my  vanity  had  assumed  a  different  shape.  It  is 
true  that  I  cared  no  longer  for  the  reputation  women  can  be- 
stow ;  but  I  was  eager  for  the  applause  of  men,  and  I  did  not 
like  the  long  labor  necessary  to  attain  it.  I  wished  to  make  a 
short  road  to  my  object,  and  1  eagerly  followed  every  turn  but 
the  right  one,  in  the  hopes  of  its  leading  me  sooner  to  my  goal. 

"The  great  characteristic  of  a  vain  man,  in  contradistinction 
to  an  ambitious  man,  and  his  eternal  obstacle  to  a  high  and 
honorable  fame,  is  this  :  he  requires  for  an  expenditure  of 
trouble  too  speedy  a  reward  ;  he  cannot  wait  for  years,  and 
climb,  step  by  step,  to  a  lofty  object  :  whatever  he  attempts,  he 
must  seize  at  a  single  grasp.  Added  to  this,  he  is  incapable  of 
an  exclusive  attention  to  one  end  ;  the  universality  of  his 
cravings  is  not  contented,  unless  it  devours  all  ;  and  thus  he  is 
perpetually  doomed  to  fritter  away  his  energies  by  grasping  at 
the  trifling  baubles  within  his  reach,  and  in  gathering  the  worth- 
less fruit  which  a  single  sun  can  mature. 

"  This,  then,  was  my  fault,  and  the  cause  of  ray  failure.  I 
could  not  give  myself  up  to  finance,  nor  puzzle  through  the 
intricacies  of  commerce :  even  the  common  parliamentary 
drudgeries  of  constant  attendance  and  late  hours  were  insup- 
portable to  me  ;  and  so  after  two  or  three  'splendid  orations,' 
as  my  friends  termed  them,  I  was  satisfied  with  the  puffs  of  the 
pamphleteers,  and  closed  my  political  career.  I  was  now,  then, 
the  wit  and  the  conversationalist.  With  my  fluency  of  speech 
and  variety  of  information,  these  were  easy  distinctions  ;  and 
the  popularity  of  a  dinner  table,  or  the  approbation  of  a  literary 
coterie,  consoled  me  for  the  more  public  and  more  durable 
applause  I  had  resigned. 

"But  even  this  gratification  did  not  last  long.  I  fell  ill ;  and 
the  friends  who  gathered  round  the  wit  fled  from  the  valetu- 
dinarian.    This  disgusted  me,  and  when  I  was  sufficiently  re- 


lo8  THE    DISOV/NED. 

covered,  I  again  returned  to  the  continent.  But  I  had  a  fit  of 
misanthropy  and  solitude  upon  me,  and  so  it  was  not  to  courts 
and  cities,  the  scenes  of  former  gaieties,  that  I  repaired  ;  on 
the  contrary,  I  hired  a  house  by  one  of  the  most  sequestered 
of  the  Swiss  lakes,  and,  avoiding  the  living,  I  surrendered  my- 
self, without  interruption  or  control,  to  commune  with  the 
dead.  I  surrounded  myself  with  books,  and  pored,  with  a 
curious  and  searching  eye,  into  those  works  which  treat  partic- 
ularly upon  'man.'  My  passions  were  over,  my  love  of  pleasure 
and  society  was  dried  up,  and  I  had  now  no  longer  the  obsta- 
cles which  forbid  us  to  be  wise ;  I  unlearnt  the  precepts  my 
manhood  had  acquired,  and  in  my  old  age  I  commenced  philos- 
opher ;  Religion  lent  me  her  aid,  and  by  her  holy  lamp  my 
studies  were  conned  and  my  hermitage  illumined. 

*'  There  are  certain  characters  which,  in  the  world,  are  evil, 
and  in  seclusion  are  good  :  Rousseau,  whom  I  know  well,  is 
one  of  them.  These  persons  are  of  a  morbid  sensitiveness, 
whish  is  perpetually  galled  by  collision  with  others.  In  short, 
they  are  under  the  dominion  of  vanity  ;  and  that  vanity,  never 
satisfied,  and  always  restless  in  the  various  competitions  of 
society,  produces  'envy,  malice,  hatred,  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness  !'  but,  in  solitude,  the  good  and  benevolent  dispositions 
with  which  our  self-love  no  longer  interferes  have  room  to  ex- 
pand and  ripen  without  being  cramped  by  opposing  interests  ; 
this  will  account  for  many  seeming  discrepancies  in  character. 
There  are  also  some  men,  in  whom  old  age  supplies  the  place 
of  solitude,  and  Rousseau's  antagonist  and  mental  antipodes, 
Voltaire,  is  of  this  order.  The  pert,  the  malignant,  the  ar- 
rogant, the  lampooning  author,  in  his  youth  and  manhood,  has 
become,  in  his  old  age,  the  mild,  the  benevolent,  and  the  vener- 
able philosopher.  Nothing  is  more  absurd  than  to  receive  the 
characters  of  great  men  so  implicitly  upon  the  word  of  a 
biographer  ;  and  nothing  can  be  less  surprising  than  our  eternal 
disputes  upon  individuals  ;  for  no  man  throughout  life  is  the 
same  being,  and  each  season  of  our  existence  contradicts  the 
characteristics  of  the  last. 

"And  now  in  my  solitude  and  my  old  age,  a  new  spirit  en- 
tered within  me  ;  the  game  in  which  I  had  engaged  so  vehe- 
mently was  over  for  me  ;  and  1  joined  to  my  experience  as  a 
player  my  coolness  as  a  spectator  ;  I  no  longer  struggled  with 
my  species,  and  I  began  insensibly  to  love  them.  I  established 
schools,  and  founded  charities  ;  and,  in  secret,  but  active, 
services  to  mankind,  I  employed  my  exertion?  and  lavished  my 
desires. 


THE    DISOWNED.  I09 

**  From  this  amendment  I  date  the  peace  of  mind  and  elasti- 
city which  I  now  enjoy ;  and  in  my  later  years,  the  happiness 
which  I  pursued  in  my  youth  and  maturity  so  hotly,  yet  so  in- 
effectually, has  flown  unsolicited  to  my  breast. 

"  About  five  years  ago  I  came  again  to  England,  with  the  in- 
tention of  breathing  my  last  in  the  country  which  gave  me 
birth.  I  retired  to  my  family  home  ;  I  endeavored  to  divert 
myself  in  agricultural  improvements,  and  my  rental  was  con- 
sumed in  speculation.  This  did  not  please  me  long  :  I  sought 
society — society  in  Yorkshire  I  You  may  imagine  the  result :  I 
was  out  of  my  element  ;  the  mere  distance  from  the  metropolis, 
from  all  genial  companionship,  sickened  me  with  a  vague  feel- 
ing of  desertion  and  solitude  :  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
felt  my  age  and  my  celibacy.  Once  more  I  returned  to  town, 
a  complaint  attacked  my  lungs,  the  physicians  recommended 
the  air  of  this  neighborhood,  and  I  chose  the  residence  I  now 
inhabit.  Without  being  exactly  in  London,  I  can  command 
its  advantages,  and  obtain  society  as  a  recreation,  without  buy- 
ing it  by  restraint.  I  am  not  fond  of  new  faces,  nor  any  longer 
covetous  of  show  ;  my  old  servant  therefore  contented  me  :  for 
the  future,  I  shall,  however,  satisfy  your  fears,  remove  to  a  safer 
habitation,  and  obtain  a  more  numerous  guard.  It  is,  at  all 
events,  a  happiness  to  me  that  fate,  in  casting  me  here,  and  ex- 
posing me  to  something  of  danger,  has  raised  up,  in  you,  a 
friend  for  my  old  age,  and  selected  from  this  great  universe  of 
strangers  one  being  to  convince  my  heart  that  it  has  not 
outlived  affection.  My  tale  is  done  ;  may  you  profit  by  its 
moral !" 

When  Talbot  said,  that  our  characters  were  undergoing  a 
perpetual  change  he  should  have  made  this  reservation  :  the 
one  ruling  passion  remains  to  the  last  ;  it  maybe  modified, but 
it  never  departs  :  and  it  is  these  modifications  which  do,  for 
the  most  part,  shape  out  the  channels  of  our  change  :  or,  as 
Helvetius  has  beautifully  expressed  it,  "  we  resemble  those  ves- 
sels which  the  waves  still  carry  towards  the  south,  when  the 
north  wind  has  ceased  to  blow,"  but  in  our  old  age,  this  passion, 
having  little  to  feed  on,  becomes  sometimes  dormant  and  inert, 
and  then  our  good  qualities  rise,  as  it  were  from  an  incubus, 
and  have  their  sway. 

Yet  these  cases  are  not  common,  and  Talbot  was  a  remark- 
able instance,  for  he  was  a  remarkable  man.  His  mind  had 
not  slept  while  the  age  advanced,  and  thus  it  had  swelled  as  it 
were  from  the  bondage  of  its  earlier  passions  and  prejudices. 


no  THE    DISOWNED. 

But  little  did  he  think,  in  the  blindness  of  self-delusion — though 
it  was  so  obvious  to  Clarence,  that  he  could  have  smiled  if  he 
had  not  rather  inclined  to  weep  at  the  frailties  of  human 
nature — little  did  he  think  that  the  vanity  which  had  cost  him 
so  much  remained  "a  monarch  still,"  undeposed  alike  by  his 
philosophy,  his  religion,  or  his  remorse  ;  and  that,  debarred  by 
circumstances  from  all  wider  and  more  dangerous  field,  it  still 
lavished  itself  upon  trifles  unworthy  of  his  powers,  and 
puerilities  dishonoring  his  age.  Folly  is  a  courtezan  whom 
we  ourselves  seek,  whose  favors  we  solicit  at  an  enormous 
price  !  and  who,  like  Lais,  finds  philosophers  at  her  door,  scarce- 
ly less  frequently  than  the  rest  of  mankind  ! 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Airs.  Trinket.     What  d'ye  buy — what  d'ye  lack,  gentlemen  ? 
Gloves,  ribbons,  and  essences — ribbons,  gloves,  and  essences. — Etherege. 

"  And  so,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Copperas,  one  morning  at 
breakfast,  to  his  wife,  his  right  leg  being  turned  over  his  left, 
and  his  dexter  hand  conveying  to  his  mouth  a  huge  morsel  of 
buttered  cake, — "  and  so,  my  love,  they  say  that  the  old  fool 
is  going  to  leave  the  jackanapes  all  his  fortune  ?  " 

'*  They  do  say  so,  Mr.  C:  for  my  part  I  am  quite  out  of 
patience  with  the  art  of  the  young  man  ;  I  dare  say  he  is  no 
better  than  he  should  be  ;  he  always  had  a  sharp  look,  and  for 
ought  I  know,  there  may  be  more  in  that  robbery  than  you  or 
I  dreamt  of,  Mr.  Copperas.  It  was  a  pity,"  continued  Mrs. 
Copperas,  upbraiding  her  lord  with  true  matrimonial  tenderness 
and  justice,  for  the  consequences  of  his  having  acted  from  her 
advice — "it  was  a  pity,  Mr.  C,  that  you  should  have  refused 
to  lend  him  the  pistols  to  go  to  the  old  fellow's  assistance,  for 
then  who  knows  but — " 

"  I  might  have  converted  them  into  pocket  pistols,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  C,  "  and  not  have  overshot  the  mark,  my  dear — 
ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

"  Lord,  Mr.  Copperas,  you  are  always  making  a  joke  of  every- 
thing," 

"  No,  my  dear,  for  once  I  am  making  a  joke  of  nothing." 

"  Well,  I  declare  it's  shameful,"  cried  Mrs.  Copperas,  still 
following  up  her  own  indignant  meditations,  "  and  after  taking 
such  notice  of  Adolphus,  too,  and  all  !  " 

"  Notice,  my  dear  !    mere  words,"  returned  Mr.  Copperas, 


TH£   DISOWNEO.  Itl 

"mere  words,  like  ventilators,  which  make  a  great  deal  of  air, 
but  never  raise  the  wind ;  but  don't  put  yourself  in  a  stew^  my 
love,  for  the  doctors  say  that  copperas  in  a  stew  is  poison  !  " 

At  this  moment  Mr.  de  Waiens,  throwing  open  tlie  door, 
announced  Mr.  Brown  ;  that  gentleman  entered  with  a  sedate 
bui  cheerful  air.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Copperas,  your  servant  ;  any 
table  linen  wanted  ?  Mr,  Copperas,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  can 
give  you  a  hint  about  the  stocks.  Master  Copperas,  you  are 
looking  bravely  ;  don't  you  think  he  wants  some  new  pin- 
befores,  ma'am  ?  But  Mr,  Clarence  Linden,  where  is  he  .?  Not 
up  yet,  1  dare  say  ?  Ah,  the  present  generation  is  a  generation 
of  sluggards,  as  his  worthy  aunt,  Mrs.  Minden,  used  to  say," 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs,  Copperas,  with  a  disdainful  toss  of 
the  head,  "  I  know  nothing  about  the  young  man.  He  has 
left  us  :  a  very  mysterious  piece  of  business  indeed,  Mr,  Brown  ; 
and  now  I  think  of  it,  I  can't  help  saying  that  we  were  by  no 
means  pleased  with  your  introduction  ;  and  by  the  by,  the 
chairs  you  bought  for  us  at  the  sale  were  a  mere  take-in,  so 
slight  that  Mr.  Walruss  broke  two  of  them  by  only  sitting 
down," 

"  Indeed,  ma'am  ? "  said  Mr,  Brown,  with  expostulating 
gravity  ;  "  but  then  Mr,  Walruss  is  so  very  corpulent.  But  the 
young  gentleman,  what  of  him  ?"  continued  the  broker,  art- 
fully turning  from  the  point  in  dispute, 

"  Lord,  Mr,  Brown,  don't  ask  me  :  it  was  the  unluckiest  step 
we  ever  made  to  admit  him  into  the  bosom  of  our  family  ; 
quite  a  viper,  I  assure  you  ;  absolutely  robbed  poor  Adolphus," 

"Lord  help  us!  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  with  a  look  which  "cast 
a  browner  horror  "  o'er  the  room,  "  who  would  have  thought 
it  ?  and  such  a  pretty  young  man  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Copperas,  who,  occupied  in  finishing  the 
buttered  cake,  had  hitherto  kept  silence,  *'  I  must  be  off. 
Tom — I  mean  de  Warens — have  you  stopped  the  coach  ? " 

"  Yees,  sir." 

"  And  what  coach  is  it  ?" 

"  It  be  the  Swallow,  sir." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  And  now,  Mr.  Brown,  having  swallowed  in 
the  roll,  I  will  e'en  roll  in  the  Swallorv.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  At  any 
rate,"  thought  Mr.  Copperas,  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  **  hi 
has  not  heard  that  before." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  gravely  chuckled  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  what  a  very 
facetious,  lively  gentleman  Mr.  Copperas  is.  But  touching  this 
ungrateful  young  man,  Mr.  Linden,  ma'am  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  tease  me,  Mr.  Brown,  1  must  see  after  my  domes- 


tti  THE   DISOWNED. 

tics  :  ask  Mr.  Talbot,  the  old  miser  in  the  next  house,  th6 
havarr,  as  the  French  say." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  following  the  good  lady  down- 
stairs— "how  distressing  for  me — and  to  say  that  he  was  Mrs. 
Minden's  nephew,  too  !  " 

But  Mr.  Brown's  curiosity  was  not  so  easily  satisfied,  and 
finding  Mr.  de  Warens  leaning  over  the  "front"  gate,  and 
"pursuing  with  wistful  eyes"  the  departing  "Swallow,"  he 
stopped,  and,  accosting  him,  soon  possessed  himself  of  the 
facts  that  "old  Talbot  had  been  robbed  and  murdered,  but 
that  Mr.  Linden  had  brought  him  to  life  again  ;  and  that  old 
Talbot  had  given  him  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and 
adopted  him  as  his  son  ;  and  that  how  Mr.  Linden  was  going 
to  be  sent  to  foreign  parts,  as  an  ambassador,  or  governor,  or 
great  person  ;  and  that  how  meester  and  meeses  were  quite  'cut 
up'  about  it." 

All  these  particulars  having  been  duly  deposited  in  the  mind 
of  Mr.  Brown,  they  produced  an  immediate  desire  to  call  upon 
the  young  gentleman,  who,  to  say  nothing  of  his  being  so  very 
nearly  related  to  his  old  customer,  Mrs.  Minden,  was  always 
so  very  great  a  favorite  with  him,  Mr.  Brown. 

Accordingly,  as  Clarence  was  musing  over  his  approaching 
departure,  which  was  now  very  shortly  to  take  place,  he  was 
somewhat  startled  by  the  apparition  of  Mr.  Brown — "  Charm- 
ing day,  sir — charming  day,"  said  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Minden — 
"just  called  in  to  congratulate  you.  I  have  a  few  articles,  sir, 
to  present  you  with  —  quite  rarities,  I  assure  you — quite 
presents,  I  may  say.  I  picked  them  up  at  a  sale  of  the  late 
Lady  Waddilove's  most  valuable  effects.  They  are  just  the 
things,  sir,  for  a  gentleman  going  on  a  foreign  mission.  A  most 
curious  ivory  chest,  with  an  Indian  padlock,  to  hold  confiden- 
tial letters — belonged  formerly,  sir,  to  the  great  Mogul  ;  and  a 
beautiful  diamond  snuff-box,  sir,  with  a  picture  of  Louis  XVL 
on  it,  prodigiously  fine,  and  will  look  so  loyal  too  ;  and,  sir,  if 
you  have  any  old  aunts  in  the  county,  to  send  a  farewell  present 
to,  I  have  some  charmingly  fine  cambric,  a  superb  Dresden  tea 
set,  and  a  lovely  little  '  ape,'  stuffed  by  the  late  Lady  W.  herself." 

"  My  good  sir,"  began  Clarence, 

"Oh,  no  thanks,  sir — none  at  all — too  happy  to  serve  a 
relation  of  Mrs.  Minden — always  proud  to  keep  up  family  con- 
nections. You  will  be  at  home  to-morrow,  sir,  at  eleven — I 
will  look  in — your  most  humble  servant,  Mr.  Linden."  And, 
almost  upsetting  Talbot,  who  had  just  entered,  Mr.  Brown 
bowed  himself  out. 


The  disowned.  113 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  We  talked  with  open  heart  and  tongue. 
Affectionate  and  true  ; 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young 
And  Matthew  seventy-two." — Wordsworth. 

Meanwhile  the  young  artist  proceeded  rapidly  with  his 
picture.  Devoured  by  his  enthusiasm,  and  utterly  engrossed 
by  the  sanguine  anticipation  of  a  fame  which  appeared  to  him 
already  won,  he  allowed  himself  no  momentary  interval  of 
relaxation  ;  his  food  was  eaten  by  starts,  and  without  stirring 
from  his  easel ;  his  sleep  was  broken  and  brief  by  feverish 
dreams ;  he  no  longer  roved  with  Clarence,  when  the  evening 
threw  her  shade  over  his  labors  ;  all  air  and  exercise  he  utterly 
relinquished  ;  shut  up  in  his  narrow  chamber,  he  passed  the 
hours  in  a  fervid  and  passionate  self-commune,  which,  even  in 
suspense  from  his  work,  riveted  his  thoughts  the  closer  to  its 
object.  All  companionship,  all  intrusion,  he  bore  with  irri- 
tabilityand  impatience.  Even  Clarence  found  himself  excluded 
from  the  presence  of  his  friend  :  even  his  nearest  relation,  who 
doated  on  the  very  ground  which  he  hallowed  with  his  footstep, 
was  banished  from  the  haunted  sanctuary  of  the  painter  ; 
from  the  most  placid  of  human  beings,  Warner  seemed  to  have 
grown  the  most  morose. 

Want  of  rest,  abstinence  from  food,  the  impatience  of  the 
strained  spirit  and  jaded  nerves,  all  contributed  to  waste  the 
health,  while  they  excited  the  genius,  of  the  artist.  A  crimson 
spot,  never  before  seen  there,  burnt  in  the  centre  of  his  pale 
cheek  ;  his  eye  glowed  with  a  brilliant  but  unnatural  fire  ;  his 
features  grew  sharp  and  attenuated  ;  his  bones  worked  from 
his  whitening  and  transparent  skin  ;  and  the  soul  and  frame, 
turned  from  their  proper  and  kindly  union,  seemed  contesting, 
with  fierce  struggles,  which  should  obtain  the  mastery  and  the 
triumph. 

But  neither  his  new  prospects,  nor  the  coldness  of  his  friend, 
diverted  the  warm  heart  of  Clarence  from  meditating  how  he 
could  most  effectually  serve  the  artist  before  he  departed  from 
the  country.  It  was  a  peculiar  object  of  desire  to  Warner 
that  the  most  celebrated  painter  of  the  day,  who  was  in  terms 
of  intimacy  with  Talbot,  and  who  with  the  benevolence  of 
real  superiority  was  known  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  the 
success  of  more  youthful  and  inexperienced  genius, — it  was  a 
peculiar  object  of  desire  to  Warner,  that  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 


^14  THE   DISOWNED. 

should  see  his  picture  before  it  was  completed  ;  and  Clarence, 
aware  of  this  wish,  easily  obtained  from  Talbot  a  promise  that 
it  should  be  effected.  That  was  the  least  service  of  his  zeal  : 
touched  by  the  earnestness  of  Linden's  friendship,  anxious  to 
oblige  in  any  way  his  preserver,  and  well  pleased  himself  to  be 
the  patron  of  merit,  Talbot  readily  engaged  to  obtain  for 
Warner  whatever  the  attention  and  favor  of  high  rank  or 
literary  distinction  could  bestow.  "  As  for  his  picture,"  said 
Talbot  (when,  the  evening  before  Clarence's  departure,  the 
latter  was  renewing  the  subject),  "  I  shall  myself  become  the 
purchaser,  and  at  a  price  which  will  enable  our  friend  to  afford 
leisure  and  study  for  the  completion  of  his  next  attempt ;  but 
even  at  the  risk  of  offending  your  friendship,  and  disappointing 
your  expectations,  I  will  frankly  tell  you,  that  I  think  Warner 
overrates,  perhaps  not  his  talents,  but  his  powers  ;  not  his 
ability  for  doing  something  great  hereafter,  but  his  capacity  of 
doing  it  at  present.  In  the  pride  of  his  heart,  he  has  shown 
me  many  of  his  designs,  and  I  am  somewhat  of  a  judge  :  they 
want  experience,  cultivation,  taste,  and,  above  all,  a  deeper 
study  of  the  Italian  masters.  They  all  have  the  defects  of  a 
feverish  coloring,  an  ambitious  desire  of  effect,  a  wavering  and 
imperfect  outline,  an  ostentatious  and  unnatural  strength  of 
light  and  shadow  ;  they  show,  it  is  true,  a  genius  of  no  ordinary 
stamp,  but  one  ill-regulated,  inexperienced,  and  utterly  left  to 
its  own  suggestions  for  a  model.  However,  I  am  glad  he 
wishes  for  the  opinion  of  one  necessarily  the  best  judge ;  let 
him  bring  the  picture  here  by  Thursday  ;  on  that  day  my  friend 
has  promised  to  visit  me  ;  and  now  let  us  talk  of  you  and  your 
departure." 

The  intercourse  of  men  of  different  ages  is  essentially 
unequal  :  it  must  always  partake  more  or  less  of  advice  on  one 
side  and  deference  on  the  other ;  and  although  the  easy  and 
unpedantic  turn  of  Talbot's  conversation  made  his  remarks 
rather  entertaining  than  obviously  admonitory,  yet  they  were 
necessarily  tinged  with  his  experience,  and  regulated  by  his 
interest  in  the  fortunes  of  his  young  friend. 

"My  dearest  Clarence,"' said  he  affectionately,  "we  are 
about  to  bid  each  other  a  long  farewell.  I  will  not  damp  your 
hopes  and  anticipations  by  insisting  on  the  little  chance  there 
is  that  you  should  ever  see  me  again.  You  are  about  to  enter 
upon  the  great  world,  and  have  within  you  the  desire  and  the 
power  of  success  ;  let  me  flatter  myself  that  you  can  profit  by 
my  experience.  Among  the  Colloquia  of  Erasmus,  there  is  a 
very  entertaining  dialogue  between  Apicius  and  a  man  who, 


THE    DISOWNED.  115 

desirous  of  giving  a  feast  to  a  very  large  and  miscellaneous 
party,  comes  to  consult  the  epicure  what  will  be  the  best  means 
to  give  satisfaction  to  all.  Now  you  shall  be  this  Spudseus  (so 
I  think  he  is  called),  and  I  will  be  Ai>icius  ;  for  the  world, 
after  all,  is  nothing  more  than  a  great  feast  of  different 
strangers,  with  different  tastes,  and  of  different  ages,  and  we 
must  learn  to  adapt  ourselves  to  their  minds,  and  our  tempta- 
tions to  their  passions,  if  we  wish  to  fascinate  or  even  content 
them.  Let  me  then  call  your  attention  to  the  hints  and 
maxims  which  I  have  in  this  paper  amused  myself  with  draw- 
ing up  for  your  instruction.  VVrite  to  me  from  time  to  time, 
and  I  will,  in  replying  to  your  letters,  give  you  the  best  advice 
in  my  power.  For  the  rest,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  only  to 
request  that  you  will  be  frank,  and  I,  in  my  turn,  will  promise 
that  when  I  cannot  assist  I  will  never  reprove.  And  now, 
Clarence,  as  the  hour  is  late,  and  you  leave  us  early  to-morrow, 
I  will  no  longer  detain  you.  God  bless  you  and  keep  you. 
You  are  going  to  enjoy  life — I  to  anticipate  death  ;  so  that  you 
can  find  in  me  little  congenial  to  yourself  ;  but,  as  the  good 
Pope  said  to  our  Protestant  countryman,  'Whatever  the  differ- 
ence between  us,  I  know  well  that  an  old  man's  blessing  is 
never  without  its  value.' " 

As  Clarence  clasped  his  benefactor's  hand,  the  tears  gushed 
from  his  eyes.  Is  there  one  being,  stubborn  as  the  rock  to 
misfortune,  whom  kindness  does  not  affect?  For  my  part, 
kindness  seems  to  me  to  come  with  a  double  grace  and  tender- 
ness from  the  old  ;  it  seems  in  them  the  hoarded  and  long 
purified  benevolence  of  years  ;  as  if  it  had  survived  and  con- 
quered the  baseness  and  selfishness  of  the  ordeal  it  had  passed  ; 
as  if  the  winds,  which  had  broken  the  form,  had  swept  in  vain 
across  the  heart,  and  the  frosts,  which  had  chilled  the  blood 
and  whitened  the  thin  locks,  had  possessed  no  power  over  the 
warm  tide  of  the  affections.  It  is  the  triumph  of  nature  over 
art ;  it  is  the  voice  of  the  angel  which  is  yet  within  us.  Nor 
is  this  all :  the  tenderness  of  age  is  twice  blessed — blessed  in 
its  trophies  over  the  obduracy  of  encrusting  and  withering 
years,  blessed  because  it  is  tinged  with  the  sanctity  of  the 
grave  ;  because  it  tells  us  that  the  heart  will  blossom  even 
upon  the  precincts  of  the  tomb,  and  flatters  us  with  the 
inviolacy  and  immortality  of  love. 


Xl6  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


"  Cannot  I  create, 
"  Cannot  I  form,  cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe  ?  " — Keats. 

The  next  morning  Clarence,  in  his  way  out  of  town,  directed 
his  carriage  (the  last  and  not  the  least  acceptable  present  from 
Talbot)  to  stop  at  Warner's  door.  Although  it  was  scarcely  sun- 
rise, the  aged  grandmother  of  the  artist  was  stirring,  and  opened 
the  door  to  the  early  visitor.  Clarence  passed  her  with  a  brief 
salutation — hurried  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  found  himself  in 
the  artist's  chamber.  The  windows  were  closed,  and  the  air  of 
the  room  was  confined  and  hot.  A  few  books,  chiefly  of  his- 
tory and  poetry,  stood  in  confused  disorder  upon  some  shelves 
opposite  the  window.  Upon  a  table  beneath  them  lay  a  flute, 
once  the  cherished  recreation  of  the  young  painter,  but  now 
long  neglected  and  disused  :  and,  placed  exactly  opposite  to 
Warner,  so  that  his  eyes  might  open  upon  his  work,  was  the 
high-prized  and  already  more  than  half-finished  picture, 

Clarence  bent  over  the  bed  ;  the  cheek  of  the  artist  rested 
upon  his  arm  in  an  attitude  unconsciously  picturesque;  the 
other  arm  was  tossed  over  the  coverlid,  and  Clarence  was 
shocked  to  see  how  emaciated  it  had  become.  But  ever  and 
anon  the  lips  of  the  sleeper  moved  restlessly,  and  words,  low 
and  inarticulate,  broke  out.  Sometimes  he  started  abruptly, 
and  a  bright  but  evanescent  flush  darted  over  his  faded  and 
hollow  cheek  ;  and  once  the  fingers  of  the  thin  hand,  which  lay 
upon  the  bed,  expanded,  and  suddenly  closed  in  a  firm  and  al- 
most painful  grasp  ;  it  was  then  that,  for  the  first  time,  the 
words  of  the  artist  became  distinct. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  he,  *'  1  have  thee,  I  have  thee,  at  last.  Long, 
very  long,  thou  hast  burnt  up  my  heart  like  fuel,  and  mocked 
me,  and  laughed  at  my  idle  efforts  ;  but  now,  now,  I  have  thee. 
Fame,  Honor,  Immortalit)"-,  whatever  thou  art  called,  I  have 
thee,  and  thou  canst  not  escape  ;  but  it  is  almost  too  late  !  " 
And,  as  if  wrung  by  some  sudden  pain,  the  sleeper  turned  heavi- 
ly round,  groaned  audibly,  and  awoke. 

**  My  friend,"  said  Clarence  soothingly,  and  taking  his  hand, 
"  I  have  come  to  bid  you  farewell.  I  am  just  setting  off  for  the 
continent,  but  I  could  not  leave  England  without  once  more 
seeing  you.  I  have  good  news,  too,  for  you."  And  Clarence 
proceeded  to  repeat  Talbot's  wish  that  Warner  should  bring  the 
picture  to  his  house  on  the  following  Thursday,  that  Sir  Joshua 


THE    DISOWNED.  II^ 

might  inspect  it.  He  added  also,  in  terms  the  flattery  of  which 
his  friendship  could  not  resist  exaggerating,  Talbot's  desire  to 
become  the  purchaser  of  the  picture. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  artist,  as  his  eye  glanced  delightedly  over 
his  labor  ;  "yes,  I  believe  when  it  is  once  seen  there  will  be 
many  candidates ! " 

"  No  doubt,"  answered  Clarence  ;  "  and  for  that  reason  you 
cannot  blame  Talbot  for  wishing  to  forestall  all  other  compet- 
itors for  the  prize":  and  then  continuing  the  encouraging 
nature  of  the  conversation,  Clarence  enlarged  upon  the  new 
hopes  of  his  friend,  besought  him  to  take  time,  to  spare  his 
health,  and  not  to  injure  both  himself  and  his  performance  by 
over-anxiety  and  hurry.  Clarence  concluded  by  retailing  Tal- 
bot's assurance  that  in  all  cases  and  circumstances  he  (Talbot) 
considered  himself  pledged  to  be  Warner's  supporter  and  friend. 

With  something  of  impatience,  mingled  with  pleasure,  the 
painter  listened  to  all  these  details  ;  nor  was  it  to  Linden's  zeal, 
nor  to  Talbot's  generosity,  but  rather  to  the  excess  of  his  own 
merit,  that  he  secretly  attributed  the  brightening  prospect  af* 
forded  him. 

The  difference  which  Warner,  though  of  a  disposition  natu- 
rally kind,  evinced  at  parting  with  a  friend  who  had  always 
taken  so  strong  an  interest  in  his  behalf,  and  whose  tears  at  that 
moment  contrasted  forcibly  enough  with  the  apathetic  cold- 
ness of  his  own  farewell,  was  a  remarkable  instance  how  acute 
vividness  on  a  single  point  will  deaden  feeling  on  all  others. 
Occupied  solely  and  burningly  with  one  intense  thought,  which 
was  to  him  love,  friendship,  health,  peace,  wealth,  Warner 
could  not  excite  feelings,  languid  and  exhausted  with  many 
and  fiery  conflicts,  to  objects  of  minor  interest,  and  perhaps  he 
inwardly  rejoiced  that  his  musings  and  his  study  would  hence- 
forth be  sacred  even  from  friendship. 

Deeply  affected,  for  his  nature  was  exceedingly  unselfish, 
generous,  and  susceptible,  Clarence  tore  himself  away,  placed 
in  the  grandmother's  hand  a  considerable  portion  of  the  sum 
he  had  received  from  Talbot,  hurried  into  his  carriage,  and 
found  himself  on  the  high  road  to  fortune,  pleasure,  distinction, 
and  the  continent. 

But  while  Clarence,  despite  of  every  advantage  before  him, 
hastened  to  a  court  of  dissipation  and  pleasure,  with  feelings  in 
which  regretful  affection  for  those  he  had  left  darkened  his 
worldly  hopes,  and  mingled  with  the  sanguine  anticipations  of 
youth,  Warner,  poor,  low-born,  wasted  with  sickness,  destitute 
of  friends,  shut  out  by  his  temperament  from  the  pleasures  of 


IlS  THE    DISOWNED. 

his  age,  burned  with  hopes  far  less  alloyed  than  those  of  Clar- 
ence, and  found  in  them,  for  the  sacrifice  of  all  else,  not  only 
a  recompense,  but  a  triumph. 

Thursday  came.  Warner  had  made  one  request  of  Talbot, 
which  had  with  difficulty  been  granted  :  it  was  that  he  himself 
might,  unseen,  be  the  auditor  of  the  great  painter's  criticisms, 
and  that  Sir  Joshua  should  be  perfectly  unaware  of  his  presence. 
It  had  been  granted  with  difficulty,  because  Talbot  wished  to 
spare  Warner  the  pain  of  hearing  remarks  which  he  felt  would 
be  likely  to  fall  far  short  of  the  sanguine  self-elation  of  the 
young  artist ;  and  it  had  been  granted  because  Talbot  imag- 
ined that,  even  should  this  be  the  case,  the  pain  would  be  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  the  salutary  effect  it  might  produce. 
Alas !  vanity  calculates  but  poorly  upon  the  vanity  of  others  ! 
What  a  virtue  we  should  distil  from  frailty  ;  what  a  world  of 
pain  we  should  save  our  brethren,  if  we  would  suffer  our  own 
weakness  to  be  the  measure  of  theirs  ! 

Thursday  came  :  the  painting  was  placed  by  the  artist's  own 
hand  in  the  most  favorable  light;  a  curtain,  hung  behind  it, 
served  as  a  screen  for  Warner,  who,  retiring  to  his  hiding-place, 
surrendered  his  heart  to  delicious  forebodings  of  the  critic's 
wonder,  and  golden  anticipations  of  the  future  destiny  of  his 
darling  work.  Not  a  fear  dashed  the  full  and  smooth  cup  of 
his  self-enjoyment.  He  had  lain  awake  the  whole  of  the  night, 
in  restless  and  joyous  impatience  for  the  morrow.  At  day- 
break he  had  started  from  his  bed,  he  had  unclosed  his  shut- 
ters, he  had  hung  over  his  picture  with  a  fondness  greater,  if 
possible,  than  he  had  ever  known  before  ;  like  a  mother,  he  felt 
as  if  his  own  partiality  was  but  a  part  of  an  universal  tribute  ; 
and,  as  his  aged  relative  turned  her  dim  eyes  to  the  painting, 
and,  in  her  innocent  idolatry,  rather  of  the  artist  than  his  work, 
praised,  and  expatiated,  and  foretold,  his  heart  vvhispered,  "If 
it  wring  this  worship  from  ignorance,  what  will  be  the  homage 
of  science?" 

He  who  first  laid  down  the  now  hackneyed  maxim,  that  diffi- 
dence is  the  companion  of  genius,  knew  very  little  of  the  work- 
ings of  the  human  heart.  True,  there  may  have  been  a  few 
such  instances,  and  it  is  probable  that  in  this  maxim,  as  in  most, 
the  exception  made  the  rule.  But  what  could  ever  reconcile 
genius  to  its  sufferings,  its  sacrifices,  its  fevered  inquietudes, 
the  intense  labor  which  can  alone  produce  what  the  shallow 
world  deems  the  giant  offspring  of  a  momentary  inspiration  ; 
what  could  ever  reconcile  it  to  these  but  the  haughty  and  un- 
(iuenchable  consciousness  of  internal  power  ;  the  hope  which 


The  disowned.  ft^ 

has  the  fulness  of  certainty  that  in  proportion  to  the  toil  is  the 
reward  ;  the  sanguine  and  impetuous  anticipation  of  glory, 
which  burst  the  boundaries  of  time  and  space,  and  ranges  im- 
mortality with  a  prophet's  rapture  ?  Rob  Genius  of  its  confi- 
dence, of  its  lofty  self-esteem,  and  you  clip  the  wings  of  the 
eagle  ;  you  domesticate,  it  is  true,  the  wanderer  you  could  not 
hitherto  comprehend,  in  the  narrow  bounds  of  your  household 
affections  :  you  abase  and  tame  it  more  to  the  level  of  your  or- 
dinary judgments,  but  you  take  from  it  the  power  to  soar ;  the 
hardihood  which  was  content  to  brave  the  thunder-cloud  and 
build  its  eyrie  on  the  rock,  for  the  proud  triumph  of  rising  above 
its  kind,  and  contemplating  with  a  nearer  eye  the  majesty  of 
heaven. 

But  if  something  of  presumption  is  a  part  of  the  very  essence 
of  genius,  in  Warner  it  was  doubly  natural,  for  he  was  still  in 
the  heat  and  flush  of  a  design,  the  defects  of  which  he  had  not 
yet  had  the  leisure  to  examine  ;  and  his  talents,  self-taught  and 
self-modelled,  had  never  received  either  the  excitement  of  emu- 
lation or  the  chill  of  discouragement  from  the  study  of  the 
masterpieces  of  his  art. 

The  painter  had  not  been  long  alone  in  his  concealment  be- 
fore he  heard  steps  ;  his  heart  beat  violently,  the  door  opened, 
and  he  saw,  through  a  small  hole  which  he  purposely  made  in 
the  curtain,  a  man  with  a  benevolent  and  prepossessing  counte- 
nance, whom  he  instantly  recognized  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
enter  the  room,  accompanied  by  Talbot.  They  walked  up  to 
the  picture ;  the  painter  examined  it  closely,  and  in  perfect 
silence.  "  Silence,"  thought  Warner,  "  is  the  best  homage  of 
admiration";  but  he  trembled  with  impatience  to  hear  the  ad- 
miration confirmed  by  words — those  words  came  too  soon. 

"It  is  the  work  of  a  clever  man,  certainly,"  said  Sir  Joshua  ; 
"^«/"  (terrible  monosyllable)  "of  one  utterly  unskilled  in  the 
grand  principles  of  his  art  ;  look  here,  and  here,  and  here,  for 
instance,"  and  the  critic,  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  torture 
he  inflicted,  proceeded  to  point  out  the  errors  of  the  work. 
Oh,  the  agony,  the  withering  agony,  of  that  moment  to  the 
ambitious  Artist !  In  vain  he  endeavored  to  bear  up  against 
the  judgment — in  vain  he  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that 
it  was  the  voice  of  envy  which  in  these  cold,  measured,  defining 
accents,  fell  like  drops  of  poison  upon  his  heart.  He  felt  at 
once,  and  as  if  by  a  magical  inspiration,  the  truth  of  the  verdict; 
the  scales  of  self-delusion  fell  from  his  eyes ;  by  a  hideous 
mockery,  a  kind  of  terrible  pantomime,  his  goddess  seemed  at  a 
word,  a  breath,  transformed  into  a  monster  ;  life,  which  had 


i&d  THE   DISOWNED. 

been  so  lately  concentrated  into  a  single  hope,  seemed  now,  at 
once  and  forever,  cramped,  curdled,  blistered  into  a  single  dis- 
appointment. 

"But,"  said  Talbot,  who  had  in  vain  attempted  to  arrest  the 
criticisms  of  the  painter  (who,  very  deaf  at  all  times,  was,  at 
that  time  in  particular,  engrossed  by  the  self-satisfaction  always 
enjoyed  by  one  expatiating  on  his  favorite  topic) — '*  but,"  said 
Talbot,  in  a  louder  voice,  "you  own  there  is  great  genius  in  the 
design?" 

"Certainly,  there  is  genius,"  replied  Sir  Joshua,  in  a  tone  of 
calm  and  complacent  good-nature  ;  "but  what  is  genius  with- 
out culture  ?  You  say  the  artist  is  young,  very  young  ;  let  him 
take  time.  I  do  not  say  let  him  attempt  a  humbler  walk — let 
him  persevere  in  the  lofty  one  he  has  chosen,  but  let  him  first 
retrace  every  step  he  has  taken  ;  let  him  devote  days,  months, 
years,  to  the  most  diligent  study  of  the  immortal  masters  of  the 
divine  art,  before  he  attempts  (to  exhibit,  at  least),  another 
historical  picture.  He  has  mistaken,  altogether,  the  nature  of 
invention  ;  a  fine  invention  is  nothing  more  than  a  fine  devia- 
tion from,  or  enlargement  on,  a  fine  model  ;  imitation,  if  noble 
and  general,  insures  the  best  hope  of  originality.  Above  all, 
let  your  young  friend,  if  he  can  afford  it,  visit  Italy." 

"  He  j>4a// afford  it,"  said  Talbot  kindly, "for  he  shall  have 
whatever  advantages  I  can  procure  him  ;  but  you  see  the  pic- 
ture is  only  half  completed — he  could  alter  it  !  " 
■ :  ^\He  had  better  burn  it!"  replied  the  painter,  with  a  gentle  smile. 

And  Talbot,  in  benevolent  despair,  hurried  his  visitor  out  of 
the  room.  He  soon  returned  to  seek  and  console  the  artist, 
but  the  artist  was  gone;  the  despised,  the  fatal  picture,  the 
blessing  and  curse  of  so  many  anxious  and  wasted  hours,  had 
vanished  also  with  its  creator. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  What  is  this  soul,  then  ?    Whence 
Came  it  ? — It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity  ! 
Some  fearful  end  must  be — 

*  *  *  *  * 

There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 

His  appetite  beyond  his  na'ural  sphere, 

But  starved  and  died." — Keats's  Endymion. 

.  :0n  entering  his  home,  Warner  pushed  aside,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  with  disrespect,  his  aged   and  kindly  relation, 


THE   DISOWNED.  14t 

who,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  unfortunate  artist,  stood  prepared 
to  welcome  and  congratulate  his  return.  Bearing  his  picture 
in  his  arms,  he  rushed  upstairs,  hurried  into  his  room,  and 
locked  the  door.  Hastily  he  tore  aside  the  cloth  which  h.ad 
been  drawn  over  the  picture  ;  hastily  and  tremblingly  he  placed 
it  upon  the  frame  accustomed  to  support  it,  and  then,  with  a 
long,  long,  eager,  searching,  scrutinizing  glance,  he  surveyed 
the  once-beloved  mistress  of  his  worship.  Presumption,  vanity, 
exaggerated  self-esteem,  are,  in  their  punishment,  supposed  to 
excite  ludicrous,  not  sympathetic,  emotions ;  but  there  is  an 
excess  of  feeling,  produced  by  whatever  cause  it  may  be,  into 
which,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  we  are  forced  to  enter.  Even  fear, 
the  most  contemptible  of  the  passions,  becomes  tragic  the 
moment  it  becomes  an  agony. 

"Well,  well ! "  said  Warner  at  last,  speaking  very  slowly,  "it 
is  over — it  was  a  pleasant  dream — but  it  is  over — I  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  the  lesson."  Then  suddenly  changing  his  mood 
and  tone,  he  repeated,  "  Thankful !  for  what  ?  that  I  am  a 
wretch — a  wretch  more  utterly  hopeless,  and  miserable,  and 
abandoned,  than  a  man  who  freights  with  all  his  wealth,  his 
children,  his  wife,  the  hoarded  treasures  and  blessings  of  an 
existence,  one  ship,  one  frail,  worthless  ship,  and,  standing 
himself  on  the  shore,  sees  it  suddenly  go  down  !  Oh,  was  I 
not  a  fool — a  right  noble  fool — a  vain  fool — an  arrogant  fool — 
a  very  essence  and  concentration  of  all  things  that  make  a  fool, 
to  believe  such  delicious  marvels  of  myself !  What,  man  ! — 
(here  his  eye  saw  in  the  opposite  glass  his  features,  livid  and 
haggard  with  disease,  and  the  exhausting  feelings  which  preyed 
within  him) — what,  man  !  would  nothing  serve  thee  but  to  be  a 
genius — thee  whom  Nature  stamped  with  her  curse !  Dwarf- 
like and  distorted,  mean  in  stature  and  in  lineament,  thou  wert, 
indeed,  a  glorious  being  to  perpetuate  grace  and  beauty,  the 
majesties  and  dreams  of  art  !  Fame  for  thee,  indeed — ha — 
ha  !  Glory — ha — ha  !  a  place  with  Titian,  Correggio,  Raphael — 
ha — ha — ha  !  O,  thrice  modest,  thrice  reasonable  fool  !  But 
this  vile  daub  ;  this  disfigurement  of  canvas  ;  this  loathed  and 
wretched  monument  of  disgrace  ;  this  notable  candidate  for — 
ha — ha — immortality  ! — this  I  have,  at  least,  in  my  power." 
And  seizing  the  picture,  he  dashed  it  to  the  ground,  and 
trampled  it  with  his  feet  upon  the  dusty  boards,  till  the  moist 
colors  presented  nothing  but  one  confused  and  dingy  stain. 

This  sight  seemed  to  recall  him  for  a  moment.  He  paused, 
lifted  up  the  picture  once  more,  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 
**But/'  he  muttered,  "might  not  this  critic  be  envious  ?  am  X 


12?  THE   DISOWNED. 

sure  that  he  judged  rightly — fairly?  The  greatest  masters 
have  looked  askant  and  jealous  at  their  pupil's  works.  And 
then,  how  slow,  how  cold,  how  damned  cold,  how  indifferently 
he  spoke  ;  why,  the  very  art  should  have  warmed  him  more. 
Could  he  have —  No,  no,  no  :  it  was  true,  it  was  !  I  felt  the 
conviction  thrill  through  me  like  a  searing  iron.  Burn  it — did 
he  say — ay — burn  it — it  shall  be  done  this  instant." 

And,  hastening  to  the  door,  he  undid  the  bolt.  He  staggered 
back  as  he  beheld  his  old  and  nearest  surviving  relative,  the 
mother  of  his  father,  seated  upon  the  ground  beside  the  door, 
terrified  by  the  exclamations  she  did  not  dare  to  interrupt.  She 
rose  slowly,  and  with  difficulty,  as  she  saw  him  ;  and,  throwing 
around  him  the  withered  arms  which  had  nursed  his  infancy, 
exclaimed,  "  My  child  !  my  poor — poor  child  !  what  has  come 
to  you  of  late?  you,  who  were  so  gentle,  so  mild,  so  quiet — you 
are  no  longer  the  same — and  oh,  my  son,  how  ill  you  look  :  your 
father  looked  so  just  before  he  died  !  " 

"111!"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  fearful  gaiety,  "ill — no — I 
never  was  so  well — I  have  been  in  a  dream  till  now — but  I  have 
woke  at  last.  Why,  it  is  true  that  I  have  been  silent  and  shy, 
but  I  will  be  so  no  more.  I  will  laugh,  and  talk,  and  walk,  and 
make  love,  and  drink  wine,  and  be  all  that  other  men  are. 
Oh,  we  will  be  so  merry.  But  stay  here,  while  I  fetch  a 
light." 

"  A  light,  my  child,  for  what  ?  " 

"For  a  funeral !  "  shouted  Warner,  and,  rushing  past  her,  he 
descended  the  stairs,  and  returned  almost  in  an  instant  with  a 
light. 

Alarmed  and  terrified,  the  poor  old  woman  had  remained 
motionless,  and  weeping  violently.  Her  tears  Warner  did  not 
seem  to  notice  ;  he  pushed  her  gently  into  the  room,  and  began 
deliberately,  and  without  uttering  a  syllable,  to  cut  the  picture 
into  shreds. 

"What  are  you  about,  my  child?"  cried  the  old  woman; 
"  you  are  mad,  it  is  your  beautiful  picture  that  you  are  de- 
stoying  !  " 

Warner  did  not  reply,  but,  going  to  the  hearth,  piled  to- 
gether, with  nice  and  scrupulous  care,  several  pieces  of  paper, 
and  stick,  and  matches,  into  a  sort  of  pyre  ;  tlien,  i)lacing  the 
shreds  of  the  picture  upon  it,  he  applied  the  light,  and  the 
whole  was  instantly  in  a  blaze. 

"Look,  look  !  "  cried  he,  in  an  hysterical  tone,  "  how  it  burns, 
and  crackles,  and  blazes !  What  ma,ster  ever  equalled  it 
now  ? — no  fault  now  in  those  colors— no.  false  tints  in  that  light 


THE   DISOWNED,  ^2^ 

and  shade  !  See  how  that  flame  darts  up  and  soars ! — that 
flame  is  my  spirit  !  Look — is  it  not  restless  ? — does  it  not 
aspire  bravely  ? — why,  all  its  brother  flames  are  grovellers  to 
it  ! — and  now — why  don't  you  look  ! — it  falters — fades — 
droops — and — ha — ha — ha  ! — poor  idler,  the  fuel  is  consumed — 
and — it  is  darkness  !  " 

As  Warner  uttered  these  words  his  eyes  reeled  ;  the  room 
swam  before  him  :  the  excitement  of  his  feeble  frame  had 
reached  its  highest  pitch  ;  the  disease  of  many  weeks  had  at- 
tained its  crisis ;  and,  tottering  back  a  few  paces,  he  fell  upon 
the  floor,  the  victim  of  a  delirious  and  raging  fever. 

But  it  was  not  thus  that  the  young  artist  was  to  die.  He  was 
reserved  for  a  death,  that,  like  his  real  nature,  had  in  it  more  of 
gentleness  and  poetry.  He  recovered,  by  slow  degrees,  and 
his  mind,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  returned  to  that  profession 
from  which  it  was  impossible  to  divert  the  thoughts  and 
musings  of  many  years.  Not  that  he  resumed  the  pencil  and 
the  easel ;  on  the  contrary,  he  could  not  endure  them  in  his 
sight ;  they  appeared,  to  a  mind  festered  and  sore,  like  a 
memorial  and  monument  of  shame.  But  he  nursed  within  him 
a  strong  and  ardent  desire  to  become  a  pilgrim  to  that  beauti- 
ful land  of  which  he  had  so  often  dreamed,  and  which  the  in- 
nocent destroyer  of  his  peace  had  pointed  out  as  the  theatre  of 
inspiration,  and  the  nursery  of  future  fame. 

The  physicians  who,  at  Talbot's  instigation,  attended  him, 
looked  at  his  hectic  cheek  and  consumptive  frame,  and  readily 
flattered  his  desire  :  and  Talbot,  no  less  interested  in  Warner's 
behalf  on  his  own  account,  than  bound  by  his  promise  to 
Clarence,  generously  extended  to  the  artist  that  bounty  which 
is  the  most  precious  prerogative  of  the  rich.  Notwithstanding 
her  extreme  age,  his  grandmother  insisted  upon  attending  him  : 
there  is  in  the  heart  of  woman  so  deep  a  well  of  love,  that  no 
age  can  freeze  it.  They  made  the  voyage  :  they  reached  the 
shore  of  the  myrtle  and  the  vine,  and  entered  the  imperial 
city.  The  air  of  Rome  seemed  at  first  to  operate  favorably 
upon  the  health  of  the  English  artist.  His  strength  appeared 
to  increase,  his  spirit  to  expand  ;  and  though  he  had  relapsed 
into  more  than  his  original  silence  and  reserve,  he  resumed, 
with  apparent  energy,  the  labors  of  the  easel :  so  that  they  who 
looked  no  deeper  than  the  surface  might  have  imagined  the 
scar  healed,  and  the  real  foundation  of  future  excellence  begun. 

But  while  Warner  most  humbled  himself  before  the  gods  of 
the  pictured  world  ;  while  the  true  principles  of  the  mighty 
art  opened  in  their  fullest  glory  on  his  soul  ;  precisely  at  thi^ 


124  THE  DlSOWKfifi. 

very  moment  shame  and  despondency  were  most  bitter  at  his 
heart :  and  while  the  enthusiasm  of  the  painter  kindled,  the 
ambition  of  the  man  despaired.  But  still  he  went  on,  transfusing 
into  his  canvas  the  grandeur  and  simplicity  of  the  Italian  school  ; 
still,  though  he  felt  palpably  within  him  the  creeping  advance 
of  the  deadliest  and  surest  enemy  to  fame,  he  pursued  with  an  un- 
wearied ardor  the  mechanical  completion  of  his  task;  still  the 
morning  found  him  bending  before  the  easel,  and  the  night 
brought  to  his  solitary  couch  meditation,  rather  than  sleep.  The 
fire,  the  irritability  which  he  had  evinced  before  his  illness,  had 
vanished,  and  the  original  sweetness  of  his  temper  had  returned ; 
he  uttered  no  complaint,  he  dwelt  upon  no  anticipation  of 
success;  hope  and  regret  seemed  equally  dead  within  him; 
and  it  was  only  when  he  caught  the  fond,  glad  eyes  of  his  aged 
attendant  that  his  own  filled  with  tears,  or  that  the  serenity  of 
his  brow  darkened  unto  sadness. 

This  went  on  for  some  months  ;  till  one  evening  they  found 
the  painter  by  his  window,  seated  opposite  to  an  unfinished 
picture  ;  the  pencil  was  still  in  his  hand :  the  quiet  of  settled 
thought  was  still  upon  his  countenance ;  the  soft  breeze  of  a 
southern  twilight  waved  the  hair  livingly  from  his  forehead — the 
earliest  star  of  a  southern  sky  lent  to  his  cheek  something  of 
that  subdued  lustre  which,  when  touched  by  enthusiasm,  it  had 
been  accustomed  to  wear  ;  but  these  were  only  the  mockeries 
of  life  :  life  itself  was  no  more !  He  had  died,  reconciled, 
perhaps,  to  the  loss  of  fame — in  discovering  that  art  is  to  be 
loved  for  itself — and  not  for  the  rewards  it  may  bestow  upon 
the  artist. 

There  are  two  tombs  close  to  each  other  in  the  stranger's 
burial-place  at  Rome  :  they  cover  those  for  whom  life,  unequally 
long,  terminated  in  the  same  month.  The  one  is  of  a  woman, 
bowed  with  the  burden  of  many  years  :  the  other  darkens  over 
the  dust  of  the  young  artist. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Think  upon  n.y  grief, 
And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 
To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match." — SHAKESPEARE. 

**  But  are  you  quite  sure,"  said  General  St.  Leger,  "  are  you 
quite  sure  that  this  girl  still  permits  Mordauni's  addresses  ?" 

"Sure!"  cried  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger,  "  sure,  General!  I 
•gaw  it  with  my  own  eyes.     Thev  were  st.:nding  together  in  the 


tttE  DISOWNED.  125 

copse,  when  I,  who  had  long  had  my  suspicions,  crept  up,  and 
saw  them  ;  and  Mr.  Mordaunt  held  her  hand,  and  kissed  it 
every  moment.     Shocking  and  indecorous  !  " 

"I  hate  that  man  !  as  proud  as  Lucifer,"  growled  the  Gen- 
eral.    "Shall  we  lock  her  up,  or  starve  her?" 

"  No,  General,  something  better  than  that." 

"  What,  my  love  ?   flog  her  !  " 

"She's  too  old  for  that,  brother  ;  we'll  marry  her." 

"  Marry  her  !  " 

"  Yes,  to  Mr.  Glumford  ;  you  know  that  he  has  asked  her 
several  times." 

"  But  she  cannot  bear  him." 

"  We'll  make  her  bear  him,  General  St.  Leger." 

"  But  if  she  marries,  I  shall  have  nobody  to  nurse  me  when 
I  have  the  gout." 

"Yes,  brother  :  I  know  of  a  nice  little  girl, Martha  Richard- 
son, your  second  cousin's  youngest  daughter  :  you  know  he 
has  fourteen  children,  and  you  may  have  them  all,  one  after 
another,  if  you  like." 

"  Very  true,  Diana — let  the  jade  marry  Mr.  Glumford." 

"  She  shall,"  said  the  sister  ;  "  and  I'll  go  about  it  this  very 
moment :  meantime  I'll  take  care  that  she  does  not  see  her 
lover  any  more." 

About  three  weeks  after  this  conversation,  Mordaunt,  who 
had  in  vain  endeavored  to  see  Isabel,  who  had  not  even  heard 
from  her,  whose  letters  had  been  returned  to  him  unopened, 
and  who,  consequently,  was  in  despair,  received  the  following 
note : 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  able  to  write  to  you,  or  at 
least  to  get  my  letter  conveyed  :  it  is  a  strange  messenger  that 
I  have  employed,  but  I  happened  formerly  to  make  his 
acquaintance,  and  accidentally  seeing  him  to-day,  the  extremity 
of  the  case  induced  me  to  give  him  a  commission  which  I 
could  trust  to  no  one  else.  Algernon,  are  not  the  above  sen- 
tences written  with  admirable  calmness?  are  they  not  very  ex- 
planatory, very  consistent,  very  cool?  and  yet  do  you  know 
that  I  firmly  believe  I  am  going  mad  ?  My  brain  turns  round 
and  round,  and  my  hand  burns  so  that  I  almost  think  that,  like 
our  old  nurse's  stories  of  the  fiend,  it  will  scorch  the  paper  as 
I  write.  And  I  see  strange  faces  in  my  sleep,  and  in  my  waking, 
all  mocking  at  me,  and  they  torture  and  haunt  me  ;  and  when 
I  look  at  those  faces,  I  see  no  human  relenting, — no !  though  I 
weep  and  throw  myself  on  my  knees,  and  implore  them  to  save 


126  tHE   DISOWNED. 

me.  Algernon,  my  only  hope  is  in  you.  You  know  that  I  have 
always  hitherto  refused  to  ruin  you  ;  and  even  now,  though  I 
implore  you  to  deliver  me,  I  will  not  be  so  selfish  as — 
as — I  know  not  what  I  write,  but  if  I  cannot  be  your  wife — 
I  will  not  be  his  !  No  !  if  they  drag  me  to  church,  it  shall  be 
to  my  grave,  not  my  bridal.  Isabel  St.  Leger." 

When  Mordaunt  had  read  this  letter,  which,  in  spite  of  its 
incoherence,  his  fears  readily  explained,  he  rose  hastily  ;  his 
eyes  rested  upon  a  sober-looking  man,  clad  in  brown.  The 
proud  love  no  spectators  to  their  emotions. 

"Who  are  you,  sir?"  said  Algernon  quickly. 

"  Morris  Brown,"  replied  the  stranger,  coolly  and  civilly. 
"  Brought  that  letter  to  you,  sir  ;  shall  be  very  happy  to  serve 
you  with  anything  else  ;  just  fitted  out  a  young  gentleman  as 
ambassador,  a  nephew  to  Mrs.  Minden — very  old  friend  of  mine. 
Beautiful  slabs  you  have  here,  sir,  but  they  want  a  few  nick- 
nacks  ;  shall  be  most  happy  to  supply  you  ;  got  a  lovely  little 
ape,  sir,  stuffed  by  the  late  Lady  Waddilove  ;  it  would  look 
charming  with  this  old-fashioned  carving  :  give  the  room  quite 
the  air  of  a  museum  !  " 

"And  so,"  said  Mordaunt,  for  whose  ear  the  eloquence  of 
Mr.  Brown  contained  only  one  sentence,  "  and  so  you  brought 
this  note,  and  will  take  back  my  answer?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  anything  to  keep  up  family  connections — I  knew  a 
Lady  Morden  very  well — very  well  indeed,  sir — a  relation  of 
yours,  I  presume,  by  the  similarity  of  name  ;  made  her  many  valu- 
able presents  ;  shall  be  most  happy  to  do  the  same  to  you  when 
you  are  married,  sir.  You  will  refurnish  the  house,  I  suppose? 
Let  me  see — fine  proportions  to  this  room,  sir — about  thirty-six 
feet  by  twenty-eight ;  I'll  do  the  thing  twenty  percent,  cheaper 
than  the  trade  ;  and  touching  the  lovely  little — " 

"Here,"  interrupted  Mordaunt,  "you  will  take  this  note,  and 
be  sure  that  Miss  Isabel  St.  Leger  has  it  as  soon  as  possible  ; 
oblige  me  by  accepting  this  trifle — a  trifle  indeed  compared 
with  my  gratitude,  if  this  note  reaches  its  destination  safely." 
•  "I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking  with  surprise  at  the 
gift,  which  he  held  with  no  unwilling  hand,  "  I  am  sure,  sir,  that 
you  are  very  generous,  and  strongly  remind  me  of  your  relation, 
Lady  Morden  ;  and  if  you  would  like  the  lovely  little  ape  as  a 
present — I  mean  really  a  present — you  shall  have  it,  Mr. 
Mordaunt." 

But  Mr.  Mordaunt  had  left  the  room,  and  the  sober  Morris, 
looking  round,  and  cooling  in  his  generosity,   said  to  himself 


THE    DISOWNED. 


127 


"  It  is  well  he  did  not  hear  me,  however  ;  but  I  hope  he  will 
marry  the  nice  young  lady,  fori  love  doing  a  kindness.  This 
house  must  be  refurnished — no  lady  will  like  these  old-fashioned 
chairs." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  Squire  and  fool  are  the  same  thing  here." — Farquhar. 
"In  such  a  night 
Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew, 
And,  with  an  unthrift  love,  did  run  from  Venice." — Shakespeare. 

The  persecutions  which  Isabel  had  undergone  had  indeed 
preyed  upon  her  reason  as  well  as  her  health  ;  and  in  her  brief 
intervals  of  respite  from  the  rage  of  the  uncle,  the  insults  of  the 
aunt,  and,  worse  than  all,  the  addresses  of  the  intended  bride- 
groom, her  mind,  shocked  and  unhinged,  reverted  with  such 
intensity  to  the  sufferings  she  endured  as  to  give  her  musings 
the  character  of  insanity.  It  was  in  one  of  these  moments 
that  she  had  written  to  Mordaunt ;  and  had  the  contest  continued 
much  longer  the  reason  of  the  unfortunate  and  persecuted  girl 
would  have  totally  deserted  her. 

She  was  a  person  of  acute,  and  even  poignant,  sensibilities, 
and  these  the  imperfect  nature  of  her  education  had  but  little 
served  to  guide  or  to  correct  ;  but  as  her  habits  were  pure  and 
good,  the  impulses  which  spring  from  habit  were  also  sinless 
and  exalted,  and,  if  they  erred,  "they  leant  on  virtue's  side," 
and  partook  rather  of  a  romantic  and  excessive  generosity  than 
of  the  weakness  of  womanhood  or  the  selfishness  of  passion. 
All  the  misery  and  debasement  of  her  equivocal  and  dependent 
situation  had  not  been  able  to  drive  her  into  compliance  with 
Mordaunt's  passionate  and  urgent  prayers  ;  and  her  heart  was 
proof  even  to  the  eloquence  of  love,  when  that  eloquence  pointed 
towards  the  worldly  injury  and  depreciation  of  her  lover  ;  but 
this  new  persecution  was  utterly  unforeseen  m  its  nature  and 
intolerable  from  its  cause.  To  marry  another — to  be  torn  for- 
ever from  one  in  whom  her  whole  heart  was  wrapped — to  be 
forced  not  only  to  forego  his  love,  but  to  feel  that  the  very 
thought  of  him  was  a  crime  ;  all  this,  backed  by  the  vehement' 
and  galling  insults  of  her  relations,  and  the  sullen  and  unmoved 
meanness  of  her  intended  bridegroom,  who  answered  her  can- 
dor and  confession  with  a  stubborn  indifference  and  renewed 
overtures,  made  a  load  of  evil  which  could  neither  be  borne  with 
resignation  nor  contemplated  with  patience. 


128  THE   DISOWNED. 

She  was  sitting,  after  she  had  sent  her  letter,  with  her  two  rela- 
tions, for  they  seldom  trusted  her  out  of  their  sight,  when  Mr. 
Glumford  was  announced.  Now,  Mr.  George  Glumford  was  a 
country  gentleman  of  what  might  be  termed  a  tiiird-rate  family  in 
the  county:  he  possessed  about  twelve  hundred  a  year,  to  say 
nothing  of  tlie  odd  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  which,  however, 
did  not  meet  with  such  contempt  in  his  memory  or  estimation  ; 
was  of  a  race  which  could  date  as  far  back  as  Charles  Second  ;  had 
been  educated  at  a  country  scliool  with  sixty  others,  chiefly  in- 
ferior to  himself  in  rank  ;  and  had  received  the  last  finish  at  a  very 
small  hall  at  Oxford.  In  addition  to  these  advantages,  he  had 
been  indebted  to  nature  for  a  person  five  feet  eight  inches  high, 
and  stout  in  proportion  ;  for  hair  very  short,  very  straight,  and 
of  a  red  hue,  which  even  through  powder  cast  out  a  mellow  glow; 
for  an  obstinate,  dogged  sort  of  nose,  beginning  in  snub,  and 
ending  in  bottle  ,  for  cold,  small,  gray  eyes,  a  very  small  mouth, 
pinched  up  and  avaricious  ;  and  very  large,  very  freckled,  yet 
rather  white  hands,  the  nails  of  which  were  punctiliously  cut 
into  a  point  every  other  day,  with  a  pair  of  scissors  which  Mr. 
Glumford  often  boasted  had  been  in  his  possession  since  his 
eighth  year  ;  viz.,  for  about  thirty-two  legitimate  revolutions 
of  the  sun. 

He  was  one  of  those  persons  who  are  equally  close  and  ad- 
venturous ;  who  love  the  Mat  of  a  little  speculation,  but  take 
exceeding  good  care  that  it  should  be,  in  their  own  graceful 
phrase,  "on  the  safe  side  of  the  hedge."  In  pursuance  of  this 
characteristic  of  mind,  he  had  resolved  to  fall  in  love  with 
Miss  Isabel  St.  Leger ;  for  she  being  very  dependent,  he  could 
boast  to  her  of  his  disinterestedness,  and  hope  that  she  would  be 
economical  through  a  principle  of  gratitude ;  and  being  the 
nearest  relation  to  the  opulent  General  St.  Leger,  and  his  un- 
married sister,  there  seemed  to  be  every  rational  probability  of 
her  inheriting  the  bulk  of  their  fortunes.  Upon  these  hints  of 
prudence  spake  Mr.  George  Glumford. 

Now,  when  Isabel,  partly  in  her  ingenuous  frankness,  partly 
from  the  passionate  promptings  of  her  despair,  revealed  to  him 
her  attachment  to  another,  and  her  resolution  never,  with  her 
own  consent,  to  become  his,  it  seemed  to  the  slow,  but  not  un- 
calculating,  mind  of  Mr.  Glumford  not  by  any  means  desirable 
that  he  should  forego  his  present  intentions,  but  by  all  means 
desirable  that  he  should  make  this  reluctance  of  Isabel's  an 
excuse  for  sounding  the  intentions  and  increasing  the  posthu- 
mous liberality  of  the  East  Indian  and  his  sister. 

"The  girl  is  of  my  nearest  blood,"  said  the  Major-general, 


THE    DISOWNED.  Ijn 

"and  if  I  don't  leave  my  fortune  to  her,  who  the  devil  should  I 
leave  it  to,  sir  ? "  and  so  saying,  the  speaker,  who  was  in  a  fell 
paroxysm  of  the  gout,  looked  so  fiercely  at  the  hinting  wooer, 
that  Mr.  George  Glumford,  who  was  no  Achilles,  was  some- 
what frightened,  and  thought  it  expedient  to  hint  no  more. 

"My  brother,"  said  Miss  Diana,  "is  so  odd;  but  he  is  the 
most  generous  of  men  :  besides,  the  girl  has  claims  upon  him." 

Upon  these  speeches,  Mr.  Glumford  thought  himself  secure, 
and  inly  resolving  to  punish  the  fool  for  her  sulkiness  and  bad 
taste,  as  soon  as  he  lawfully  could,  he  continued  his  daily  visits, 
and  told  his  sporting  acquaintance  that  his  time  was  coming. 

Revenons  a  nos  fnoutons,  forgive  this  preliminary  detail,  and 
let  us  return  to  Mr.  Glumford  himself,  whom  we  left  at  the 
door,  pulling  and  fumbling  at  the  glove  which  covered  his 
right  hand,  in  order  to  present  the  naked  palm  to  Miss  Diana 
St.  Leger.  After  this  act  was  performed,  he  approached  Isabel, 
and  drawing  his  chair  near  to  her,  proceeded  to  converse  with 
her  as  the  Ogre  did  with  Puss  in  Boots ;  viz.,  "  as  civilly  as  an 
Ogre  could  do." 

This  penance  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  the  door  was 
again  opened,  and  Mr.  Morris  Brown  presented  himself  to  the 
conclave. 

"Your  servant,  General  ;  your  servant,  Madam.  I  took  the 
liberty  of  coming  back  again.  Madam,  because  I  forgot  to  show 
you  some  very  fine  silks,  the  most  extraordinary  bargain  in  the 
world — quite  presents  ;  and  I  have  a  Sh>reshoyi\  here,  a  superb 
article,  from  the  cabinet  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove." 

Now  Mr.  Brown  was  a  very  old  acquaintance  of  Miss  Diana 
St.  Leger,  for  there  is  a  certain  class  of  old  maids  with  whom 
our  fair  readers  are  no  doubt  acquainted,  who  join  to  a  great 
love  of  expense  a  great  love  of  bargains,  and  who  never  pur- 
chase at  the  regular  place  if  they  can  find  any  //regular  vendor. 
They  are  great  friends  of  Jews  and  itinerants,  hand-in-glove 
with  smugglers,  Ladies  Bountiful  to  pedlars,  are  diligent  readers 
of  puffs  and  advertisements,  and  eternal  haunters  of  sales  and 
auctions.  Of  this  class  was  Miss  Diana  a  most  prominent  in- 
dividual ;  judge,  then,  how  acceptable  to  her  was  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Brown.  That  indefatigable  merchant  of  mis- 
cellanies had,  indeed,  at  a  time  when  brokers  were  perhaps 
rather  more  rare  and  respectable  than  now,  a  numerous  country 
acquaintance,  and  thrice  a  year  he  performed  a  sort  of  circuit 
to  all  his  customers  and  connections  ;  hence  his  visit  to  St. 
Leger  House,  and  hence  Isabel's  opportunity  of  conveying  her 
epistle. 


13©  THE    DISOWNED. 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  Glumford,  who  had  heard  much  of  Mr. 
Brown's  'presents'  from  Miss  Diana — "  pray  don't  you  furnish 
rooms,  and  t hi  figs  of  that  sort  ?" 

"Certainly,  sir,  certainly,  in  the  best  manner  possible." 

"Oh  !  very  well,  I  shall  want  some  rooms  furnished  soon  • 
a  bed-room,  and  a  dressing-room  ;  and  things  of  that  sort,  you 
know.  And  so — perhaps  you  may  have  something  in  your  box 
that  will  suit  me,  gloves,  or  handkerchiefs,  or  shirts,  or  things 
of  that  sort." 

"Yes,  sir,  everything,  I  sell  everything,"  said  Tslx.  Brown, 
opening  his  box. —  "  I  beg  pardon.  Miss  Isabel,  I  have  dropt 
my  handkerchief  by  your  chair  ;  allow  me  to  stoop,"  and  Mr. 
Brown,  stooping  under  the  table,  managed  to  effect  his  purpose  : 
unseen  by  the  rest,  a  note  was  slipped  into  Isabel's  hand,  and, 
under  pretence  of  stooping,  too,  she  managed  to  secure  the 
treasure.  Love  need  well  be  honest  if,  even  when  it  is  most 
true,  it  leads  us  into  so  much  that  is  false ! 

Mr.  Brown's  box  was  now  unfolded  before  the  eyes  of  the 
crafty  Mr.  Glumford,  who,  having  selected  three  pair  of  gloves, 
offered  the  exact  half  of  the  sum  demanded. 

Mr.  Brown  lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  imperturbable  Glumford,  "  that  if  you 
let  me  have  them  for  that,  and  they  last  me  well,  and  don't 
come  unsewn,  and  stand  cleaning,  you'll  have  my  custom  in 
furnishing  the  house,  and  rooms,  and — things  of  that  sort." 

Struck  with  the  grandeur  of  this  opening,  Mr.  Brown  yielded, 
and  the  gloves  were  bought. 

"  The  fool ! "  thought  the  noble  George,  laughing  in  his 
sleeve,  "as  if  I  should  ever  furnish  the  house  from  his  box ! " 

Strange  that  some  men  should  be  proud  of  being  mean. 

The  moment  Isabel  escaped  to  dress  for  dinner,  she  opened 
her  lover's  note.     It  was  as  follows  ; 

"  Be  in  the  room,  your  retreat,  at  nine  this  evening.  Let  the 
window  be  left  unclosed.  Precisely  at  that  hour  I  will  be  with 
you.  I  shall  have  everything  in  readiness  for  your  flight.  Be 
sure,  dearest  Isabel,  that  nothing  prevents  your  meeting  me 
there,  even  if  all  your  house  follow  or  attend  you.  I  will  bear 
you  from  all.  Oh,  Isabel !  in  spite  of  the  mystery  and  wretched- 
ness of  your  letter,  I  feel  too  happy,  too  blest  at  the  thought 
that  our  fates  will  be  at  length  united,  and  that  the  union  is  at 
hand.     Remember  nine.  A.  M." 

Love  is  a  feeling  which  has  so  little  to  do  with  the  world, 
a  passion  so  little  regulated  by  the  known  laws  of  our  more 


THE   DISOWNED.  /IJl 

Steady  and  settled  emotions,  that  the  thoughts  which  it  produces 
are  always  more  or  less  connected  with  exaggeration  and 
romance.  To  the  secret  spirit  of  enterprise  which,  however 
chilled  by  his  pursuits  and  habits,  still  burned  within  Mordaunt's 
breast,  there  was  a  wild  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  bearing  off 
his  mistress  and  his  bride  from  the  very  home  and  hold  of  her 
false  friends  and  real  foes  ;  while  in  the  contradictions  of  the 
same  passion,  Isabel,  so  far  from  exulting  at  her  ajjproaching 
escape,  trembled  at  her  danger,  and  blushed  for  her  temerity  ; 
and  the  fear  and  the  modesty  of  woman  almost  triumphed  over 
her  brief  energy  and  fluctuating  resolve. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  We  haste — the  chosen  and  the  lovely  bringing, 
Love  still  goes  with  her  from  her  place  of  birth ; 
Deep,  silent  joy,  within  her  soul  is  springing, 

Though  in  her  glance  the  light  no  more  is  mirth." 

' — Mrs.  Hemans. 

"Damn  it  !*'  said  the  General. 

"The  vile  creature!"  cried  Miss  Diana, 

"I  don't  understand  things  of  that  sort,"  ejaculated  the  be- 
wildered Mr.  Glumford. 

"She  has  certainly  gone,"  said  the  valiant  General. 

"  Certainly  ! "  grunted  Miss  Diana. 

"  Gone  ! "  echoed  the  bridegroom  not  to  be. 

And  she  was  gone  !  never  did  more  loving  and  tender  heart 
forsake  all,  and  cling  to  a  more  loyal  and  generous  nature. 
The  skies  were  darkened  with  clouds, 

' '  And  the  dim  stars  rushed  through  them  rare  and  fast ;  " 

and  the  winds  wailed  with  a  loud  and  ominous  voice  ;  and  the 
moon  came  forth  with  a  faint  and  sickly  smile,  from  her  cham- 
ber in  the  mist,  and  then  shrunk  back,  and  was  seen  no  more; 
but  neither  omen  nor  fear  was  upon  Mordaunt's  breast,  as  it 
swelled  beneath  the  dark  locks  of  Isabel,  which  were  pressed 
against  it. 

As  Faith  clings  the  more  to  the  cross  of  life,  while  the 
wastes  deepen  around  her  steps,  and  the  adders  creep  forth 
upon  her  path,  so  love  clasps  that  which  is  its  hope  and  com- 
fort the  closer,  for  the  desert  which  encompasses,  and  the  dan- 
gers which  harass  its  way. 


132  ITHE   t)lSOWN£D. 

They  had  fled  to  London,  and  Isabel  had  been  placed  with 
a  very  distant,  and  very  poor,  though  very  high-born  relative 
of  Algernon,  till  the  necessary  preliminaries  could  be  passed, 
and  the  final  bond  knit.  Yet  still  the  generous  Isabel  would 
have  refused — despite  the  injury  to  her  own  fame,  to  have  rat- 
ified an  union  which  filled  her  with  gloomy  presentiments  for 
Mordaunt's  fate  ;  and  still  Mordaunt  by  little  and  little  broke 
down  her  tender  scruples  and  self-immolating  resolves,  and 
ceased  not  his  eloquence  and  his  suit  till  the  day  of  his  nuptials 
was  set  and  come. 

The  morning  rose  bright  and  clear — the  autumn  was  draw- 
ing towards  its  close,  and  seemed  willing  to  leave  its  last  re- 
membrance tinged  with  the  warmth  and  softness  of  its  parent 
summer,  rather  than  with  the  stern  gloom  and  severity  of  its 
cliilling  successor. 

And  they  stood  beside  the  altar,  and  their  vows  were  ex- 
changed. A  slight  tremor  came  over  Algernon's  frame,  a  slight 
shade  darkened  his  countenance  ;  for  even  in  that  bridal  hour 
an  icy  and  thrilling  foreboding  curdled  to  his  heart  ;  it  passed — 
the  ceremony  was  over,  and  Mordaunt  bore  his  blushing  and 
weeping  bride  from  the  church.  His  carriage  was  in  attend- 
ance ;  for,  not  knowing  how  long  the  home  of  his  ancestors 
might  be  his,  he  was  impatient  to  return  to  it.  The  old 
Countess  D'Arcy,  Mordaunt's  relation,  with  whom  Isabel  had 
been  staying,  called  them  back  to  bless  them ;  for,  even 
through  the  coldness  of  old  age,  she  was  touched  by  the  singu- 
larity of  their  love,  and  affected  by  their  nobleness  of  heart. 
She  laid  her  wan  and  shrivelled  hand  upon  each,  as  she  bade 
them  farewell,  and  each  shrunk  back  involuntarily,  for  the  cold 
and  light  touch  seemed  like  the  fingers  of  the  dead. 

Fearful  indeed  is  the  vicinity  of  death  and  life — the  bridal 
chamber  and  the  charnel.  That  night  the  old  woman  died. 
It  appeared  as  if  Fate  had  set  its  seal  upon  the  union  it  had  so 
long  forbidden,  and  had  woven  a  dark  thread  even  in  the  mar- 
riage bond.  At  least,  it  tore  from  two  hearts,  over  which  the 
cloud  and  the  blast  lay  couched  in  a  "grim  repose,"  the  last 
shelter  which,  however  frail  and  distant,  seemed  left  to  them 
upon  the  inhospitable  earth ! 


THE    DISOWNED.  I33 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  Live  while  ye  may,  yet  happy  pair  :  enjoy 
Short  pleasures,  for  long  woes  are  to  succeed." — MiLTON. 

The  autumn  and  the  winter  passed  away ;  Mordaunt's  rela- 
tion continued  implacable.  Algernon  grieved  for  this,  inde- 
pendent of  worldly  circumstances  ;  for,  though  he  had  seldom 
seen  that  relation,  yet  he  loved  him  for  former  kindness — 
rather  promised,  to  be  sure,  than  yet  shown — with  the  natural 
warmth  of  an  affection  which  has  but  few  objects.  However, 
the  old  gentleman  (a  very  short,  very  fat  person — very  short, 
and  very  fat  people,  when  they  are  surly,  are  the  devil  and  all ; 
for  the  humors  of  their  mind,  like  those  of  their  body,  have 
something  corrupt  and  unpurgeable  in  them) — wrote  him  one 
bluff,  contemptuous  letter,  in  a  witty  strain — for  he  was  a  bit 
of  a  humorist — disowned  his  connection,  and  very  shortly  after- 
wards died,  and  left  all  his  fortune  to  the  very  Mr.  Vavasour 
•who  was  at  law  with  Mordaunt,  and  for  whom  he  had  always 
openly  expressed  the  strongest  personal  dislike — spite  to  one 
relation  is  a  marvellous  tie  to  another.  Meanwhile  the  lawsuit 
went  on  less  slowly  than  lawsuits  usually  do,  and  the  final  de- 
cision was  very  speedily  to  be  given. 

We  said  the  autumn  and  winter  were  gone ;  and  it  was  in 
one  of  those  latter  days  in  March,  when,  like  a  hoyden  girl 
subsiding  into  dawning  womanhood,  the  rude  weather  mellows 
into  a  softer  and  tenderer  month,  that,  by  the  side  of  a  stream, 
overshadowed  by  many  a  brake  and  tree,  sate  two  persons. 

"  I  know  not,  dearest  Algernon,"  said  one,  who  was  a  female, 
"if  this  is  not  almost  the  sweetest  month  in  the  year,  because 
it  is  the  month  of  Hope." 

"  Ay,  Isabel ;  and  they  did  it  wrong  who  called  it  harsh,  and 
dedicated  it  to  Mars.  I  exult  even  in  the  fresh  winds  which 
hardier  frames  than  mine  shrink  from,  and  I  love  feeling  their 
wild  breath  fan  my  cheek  as  I  ride  against  it.  I  remember," 
continued  Algernon  musingly,  "that  on  this  very  day  three 
years  ago,  I  was  travelling  through  Germany,  alone  and  on 
horseback,  and  I  paused,  not  far  from  Ens,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Danube  ;  the  waters  of  the  river  were  disturbed  and  fierce,  and 
the  winds  came  loud  and  angry  against  my  face,  dashing  the 
spray  of  the  waves  upon  me,  and  filling  my  spirit  with  a  buoy- 
ant and  glad  delight ;  and  at  that  time  I  had  been  indulging  old 
dreams  of  poetry,  and  had  laid  my  philosophy  aside  ;  and,  in 
the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  I  lifted  up  my  hand  towards  the 


♦34  'I'HE   DISOWNED. 

quarter  whence  the  winds  came,  and  questioned  them  audibly 
of  their  birthplace  and  their  bourne  ;  and,  as  the  enthusiasm 
increased,  I  compared  them  to  our  human  life,  which  a  mo- 
ment is,  and  then  is  not ;  and,  proceeding  from  folly  to  folly,  I 
asked  them,  as  if  they  were  the  interpreters  of  heaven,  for  a 
type  and  sign  of  my  future  lot." 

"And  what  said  they  ?  "  inquired  Isabel,  smiling,  yet  smiling 
timidly, 

"  They  answered  not,"  replied  Mordaunt ;  "  but  a  voice 
within  me  seemed  to  say — '  Look  above  ! '  and  I  raised  my 
eyes, — but  did  not  see  thee,  love — so  the  Book  of  Fate  lied." 

"Nay,  Algernon,  what  did  yow  see?"  asked  Isabel,  more 
earnestly  than  the  question  deserved. 

"  I  saw  a  thin  cloud,  alone  amidst  many  dense  ones  scattered 
around  ;  and  as  I  gazed  it  seemed  to  take  the  likeness  of  a 
funeral  procession — coffin,  bearers,  priest,  all — as  clear  in  the 
cloud  as  I  have  seen  them  upon  earth  :  and  I  shuddered  as  I 
saw  ;  but  the  winds  blew  the  vapor  onwards,  and  it  mingled 
with  the  broader  masses  of  cloud ;  and  then,  Isabel,  the  sun 
shone  forth  for  a  moment,  and  I  mistook,  love,  when  I  said 
you  were  not  there,  for  that  sun  was  you  ;  but  suddenly  the 
winds  ceased,  and  the  rain  came  on  fast  and  heavy  :  so  my 
romance  cooled,  and  my  fever  slaked — I  thought  on  the  inn  at 
Ens,  and  the  blessings  of  a  wood  fire,  which  is  lighted  in  a 
moment,  and  I  spurred  on  my  horse  accordingl)\ 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  Isabel. 

"What,  love?"  whispered  Algernon,  kissing  her  cheek. 

"  Nothing,  dearest,  nothing." 

At  that  instant,  the  deer,  which  lay  waving  their  lordly 
antlers  to  and  fro  beneath  the  avenue  which  sloped  upward 
from  the  stream  to  the  house,  rose  hurriedly  and  in  confusion, 
and  stood  gazing,  with  watchful  eyes,  upon  a  man  advancing 
towards  the  pair. 

It  was  one  of  the  servants  with  a  letter.  Isabel  saw  a  faint 
change  (which  none  else  could  have  seen)  in  Mordaunt's 
countenance,  as  he  recognized  the  writing  and  broke  the  seal. 
When  he  had  read  the  letter,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  ground, 
and  then,  with  a  slight  start,  he  lifted  them  up,  and  gazed  long 
and  eagerly  around.  Wistfully  did  he  drink,  as  it  were,  into 
his  heart  the  beautiful  and  expanded  scene  which  lay  stretched 
on  either  side  ;  the  noble  avenue  which  his  forefathers  had 
planted  as  a  shelter  for  their  sons,  and  which  now,  in  its  majes- 
tic growth  and  its  waving  boughs,  seemed  to  say,  "Lo!  ye 
are  repaid  !  "  and  the  never  silent  and  silver  stream,  by  which 


THE   DISOWNED.  I35 

his  boyhood  had  sat  for  hours,  lulled  by  its  music,  and  inhaling 
the  fragrance  of  the  reed  and  wild-flower  that  decoyed  the  bee 
to  its  glossy  banks  ;  and  the  deer,  to  whose  melancholy  belling 
he  had  listened  so  often  in  the  gray  twilight  with  a  rapt  and 
dreaming  ear  ;  and  the  green  fern  waving  on  the  gentle  hill, 
from  whose  shade  his  young  feet  had  startled  the  hare  and  the 
infant  fawn  ;  and  far  and  faintly  gleaming  through  the  thick 
trees,  which  clasped  it  as  with  a  girdle,  the  old  Hall,  so  asso- 
ciated with  vague  hopes  and  musing  dreams,  and  the  dim 
legends  of  gone  time,  and  the  lofty  prejudices  of  ancestral 
pride, — all  seemed  to  sink  within  him,  as  he  gazed,  like  the  last 
looks  of  departing  friends  ;  and  when  Isabel,  who  had  not 
dared  to  break  a  silence  which  partook  so  strongly  of  gloom, 
at  length  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  lifted  her  dark,  deep, 
tender  eyes  to  his,  he  said,  as  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and  a 
faint,  sickly  smile  played  upon  his  lips  : 

"  It  is  past,  Isabel :  henceforth  we  have  no  wealth  but  in 
each  other.  The  cause  has  been  decided — and — and — we  are 
beggars!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  We  expose  our  life  to  a  quotidian  ague  of  frigid  impertinences,  which 
would  make  a  wise  man  tremble  to  think  of." — Cowley. 

We  must  suppose  a  lapse  of  four  years  from  the  date  of 
those  events  which  concluded  the  last  chapter  ;  and,  to  recom- 
pense the  reader,  who,  I  know,  has  a  little  penchant  for  "  High 
Life,"  even  in  the  last  century,  for  having  hitherto  shown  him 
human  beings  in  a  state  of  society  not  wholly  artificial,  I  beg 
him  to  picture  to  himself  a  large  room,  brilliantly  illuminated, 
and  crowded  "  with  magnates  of  the  land."  Here  (some  in 
saltatory  motion,  some  in  sedentary  rest)  are  dispersed  various 
groups  of  young  ladies  and  attending  swains,  talking  upon  the 
subject  of  Lord  Rochester's  celebrated  poem,  viz. — "■Nothing!" 
— and,  lounging  around  the  door,  meditating  probably  upon 
the  same  subject,  stand  those  unhappy  victims  of  dancing 
daughters,  denominated  "  J*apas." 

The  music  has  ceased — the  dancers  have  broken  up,  and 
there  is  a  general  but  gentle  sweep  towards  the  refreshment 
room.  In  the  crowd— having  just  entered— there  glided  a 
young  man  of  an  air  more  distinguished  and  somewhat  more 
joyous  than  the  rest. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr,  Linden?"  said  a  tall  and  (though 


136  THE   DISOWNED. 

somey/ha.t passe'e)  very  handsome  woman,  blazing  with  diamonds ; 
"  are  you  just  come  ?  " 

And  here,  by  the  way,  I  cannot  resist  pausing  to  observe, 
that  a  friend  of  mine,  meditating  a  novel,  submitted  a  part  of 
the  MS.  to  a  friendly  publisher.  "Sir,"  said  the  bookseller, 
"  your  book  is  very  clever,  but  it  wants  dialogue." 

"  Dialogue  ?  "  cried  my  friend  —  '*  you  mistake  —  it  is  all 
dialogue." 

"  Ay,  sir,  but  not  what  we  call  dialogue  ;  we  want  a  little 
conversation  in  fashionable  life — a  little  elegant  chit-chat  or 
oo  :  and,  as  you  must  have  seen  so  much  of  the  deau  vionde^ 
you  could  do  it  to  the  life  :  we  must  have  something  light,  and 
witty,  and  entertaining." 

"  Light,  witty,  and  entertaining !  "  said  our  poor  friend  ; 
**  and  how  the  deuce  then  is  it  to  be  like  conversation  in 
*  fashionable  life '  ?  When  the  very  best  conversation  one  can 
get  is  so  insufferably  dull,  how  do  you  think  that  people  will 
be  amused  by  reading  a  copy  of  the  very  worst  ?  " 

"They  are  amused,  sir,"  said  the  publisher,  "and  works  of 
this  kind  sell !  " 

"  I  am  convinced,"  said  my  friend :  for  he  was  a  man  of 
a  placid  temper  ;  he  took  the  hint,  and  his  book  did  sell  ! 

Now  this  anecdote  rushed  into  my  mind  after  the  penning  of 
the  little  address  of  the  lady  in  diamonds — "  How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Linden  ?  Are  you  just  come  ?  " — and  it  received  an 
additional  weight  from  my  utter  inability  to  put  into  the  mouth 
of  Mr.  Linden — notwithstanding  my  desire  of  representing  him 
in  the  most  brilliant  colors — any  more  happy  and  eloquent 
answer  than,  "  Only  this  instant  I  " 

However,  as  this  is  in  the  true  spirit  of  elegant  dialogue,  I 
trust  my  readers  find  it  as  light,  witty,  and  entertaining  as, 
according  to  the  said  publisher,  the  said  dialogue  is  always 
found  by  the  public. 

While  Clarence  was  engaged  in  talking  with  this  lady,  avery 
pretty,  lively,  animated  girl,  with  laughing  blue  eyes,  which, 
joined  to  the  dazzling  fairness  of  her  complexion,  gave  a  Hebe- 
like youth  to  her  features  and  expression,  was  led  up  to  the 
said  lady  by  a  tall  young  man,  and  consigned,  with  the  cere- 
monious bow  of  the  vieille  cour,  to  her  protection. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Linden,"  cried  the  young  lady,  "I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you — such  a  beautiful  ball !  Everybody  here  that  I  most 
like.  Have  you  had  any  refreshments,  mamma?  But  I  need 
not  ask,  for  I  am  sure  you  have  not ;  do  come,  Mr.  Linden  will 
be  our  cavalier." 


THli    DISOWNED.  I37 

"Well,  Flora,  as  you  please,"  said  the  elder  lady,  with  a 
proud  and  fond  look  at  her  beautiful  daughter ;  and  they 
proceeded  to  the  refreshment-room. 

No  sooner  were  they  seated  at  one  of  the  tables,  than  they 
were  accosted  by  Lord  St.  George,  a  nobleman  whom  Clarence, 
before.he  left  England,  had  met  more  than  once  at  Mr.  Talbot's. 

"  London,"  said  his  lordship,  to  her  of  the  diamonds,  "  has 
not  seemed  like  the  same  place  since  Lady  Westborough 
arrived  ;  your  presence  brings  out  all  the  other  luminaries : 
and  therefore  a  young  acquaintance  of  mine — God  bless  me, 
there  he  is,  seated  by  Lady  Flora — very  justly  called  you  '  the 
evening  star.'  " 

*'  Was  that  Mr.  Linden's  pretty  saying  ? "  said  Lady  West- 
borough,  smiling. 

"It  was,"  answered  Lord  St;  George,  "and,  by  the  bye,  he 
is  a  very  sensible,  pleasant  person,  and  greatly  improved  since 
he  left  England  last." 

"What !  "  said  Lady  Westborough,  in  a  low  tone  (for  Clarence, 
though  in  earnest  conversation  with  Lady  Flora,  was  within 
hearing),  and  making  room  for  Lord   St.  George  beside  her, 

"What!  did jw^  know  him  before  he  went  to ?     You  can 

probably  tell  me,  then,  who — that  is  to  say — what  family  he  is 
exactly  of — the  Lindens  of  Devonshire,  or — or — " 

"Why,  really,"  said  Lord  St.  George,  a  little  confused,  for 
no  man  likes  to  be  acquainted  with  persons  whose  pedigree  he 
cannot  explain,  "I  don't  know  what  may  be  his  family:  I  met 
him  at  Talbot's  four  or  five  years  ago ;  he  was  then  a  mere 
boy,  but  he  struck  m.e  as  being  very  clever,  and  Talbot  since 
told  me  that  he  was  a  nephew  of  his  own." 

"  Talbot,"  said  Lady  Westborough  musingly,  "  what  Talbot  .'* " 

"  Oh  !  the  Talbot — the  ci-devant  jeune  hotfune  !  " 

"  What,  that  charming,  clever,  animated  old  gentleman,  who 
used  to  dress  so  oddly,  and  had  been  so  celebrated  a  deau 
garfo/i  in  his  day  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Lord  St.  George,  taking  snuflf,  and  delighted 
to  find  he  had  set  his  young  acquaintance  on  so  honorable  a 
footing. 

"  I  did  not  know  he  was  still  alive,"  said  Lady  Westborough  ; 
and  then,  turning  her  eyes  towards  Clarence  and  her  daughter, 
she  added  carelessly,  "Mr.  Talbot  is  very  rich,  is  he  not  ?" 

"  Rich  as  Croesus,"  replied  Lord  St.  George,  with  a  sigh. 

"  And  Mr,  Linden  is  his  heir,  I  suppose?  " 

"  In  all  probability,"  answered  Lord  St.  George  ;  "  though  I 
believe  I  can  boast  a  distant  relationship  to  Talbot.     However, 


138  THE    DISOWNED. 

I  could  not  make  him  fully  understand  it  the  other  day,  though 
I  took  particular  pains  to  explain  it." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  between  the  Marchion- 
ess of  Westborough  and  Lord  St.  George,  a  dialogue  equally 
interesting  to  the  parties  concerned,  and,  I  hope,  equally  light, 
witty,  and  entertaining  to  readers  in  general,  was  sustained 
between  Clarence  and  Lady  Flora. 

"How  long  shall  you  stay  in  England?"  asked  the  latter, 
looking  down. 

"  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  decide,"  replied  Clarence,  "  for 
it  rests  with  the  ministers,  not  me.  Directly  Lord  Aspeden 
obtains  another  appointment,  I  am  promised  the  office  of 
Secretary  of  Legation  ;  but  till  then,  I  am — 

'  A  captive  in  Ajigusta's  towers 
To  beauty  and  her  train .'  " 

"Oh  !  "  cried  Lady  Flora,  laughing,  "you  mean  Mrs.  Des- 
borough  and  her  train  :  see  where  they  sweep  !  Pray  go  and 
render  her  homage." 

"  It  is  rendered,"  said  Linden,  in  a  low  voice,  "without  so 
long  a  pilgrimage,  but  perhaps  despised." 

Lady  Flora's  laugh  was  hushed  ;  the  deepest  blushes  suffused 
her  cheeks,  and  the  whole  character  of  that  face,  before  so 
playful  and  joyous,  seemed  changed,  as  by  a  spell,  into  a  grave, 
subdued,  and  even  timid  look. 

Linden  resumed,  and  his  voice  scarcely  rose  above  a 
whisper.  A  whisper  !  O  delicate  and  fairy  sound  !  music 
that  speaketh  to  the  heart,  as  if  loth  to  break  the  spell  that 
binds  it  while  it  listens  !  Sigh  breathed  into  words,  and  freight- 
ing love  in  tones  languid,  like  homeward  bees,  by  the  very 
sweets  with  which  they  are  charged  ! 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  he,  "  that  evening  at when  we 

last  parted  ?  and  the  boldness  which  at  that  time  you  were 
gentle  enough  to  forgive  ?  " 

Lady  Flora  replied  not. 

"  And  do  you  remember,"  continued  Clarence,  "  that  I  told 
you  that  it  was  not  as  an  unknown  and  obscure  adventurer  that 
I  would  claim  the  hand  of  her  whose  heart,  as  an  adventurer, 
I  had  won  ? " 

Lady  Flora  raised  her  eyes  for  one  moment,  and  encounter- 
ing the  ardent  gaze  of  Clarence,  as  instantly  dropped  them. 

"  The  time  is  not  7^/  come,"  said  Linden,  "  for  the  fulfilment 
of  this  promise  ;  but  may  I — dare  I  hope,  that  when  it  does  I 
shall  not  be — " 


THE   DISOWNED. 


»39 


"  Flora,  my  love,"  said  Lady  Westborough, "  let  me  introduce 
to  you  Lord  Borodaile." 

Lady  Flora  turned — the  spell  was  broken  ;  and  the  lovers 
were  instantly  transformed  into  ordinary  mortals.  But.  as 
Flora,  after  returning  Lord  Borodaile's  address,  glanced  her 
eye  towards  Clarence,  she  was  struck  with  the  sudden  and 
singular  change  of  his  countenance  ;  the  flush  of  youth  and 
passion  was  fled,  his  complexion  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  eye? 
were  fixed  with  a  searching  and  unaccountable  meaning  upon 
the  face  of  the  young  nobleman,  who  was  alternately  address- 
ing, with  a  quiet  and  somewhat  haughty  fluency,  the  beautiful 
mother,  and  the  more  lovely,  though  lesscommandingdaughter. 
Directly  Linden  perceived  that  he  was  observed,  herose,  turned 
away,  and  was  soon  lost  among  the  crowd. 

Lord  Borodaile,  the  son  and  heir  of  the  powerful  Earl  of 
Ulswater,  was  about  the  age  of  thirty,  small,  slight,  and  rather 
handsome  than  otherwise,  though  his  complexion  was  dark  and 
sallow  ;  and  a  very  aquiline  nose  gave  a  stern  and  somewhat 
severe  air  to  his  countenance.  He  had  been  for  several  years 
abroad,  in  various  parts  of  the  continent,  and  (no  other  field 
for  an  adventurous  and  fierce  spirit  presenting  itself)  had  served 
with  the  gallant  Earl  of  Effingham,  in  the  war  between  the 
Turks  and  Russians,  as  a  volunteer  in  the  armies  of  the  latter. 
In  this  service  he  had  been  highly  distinguished  for  courage 
and  conduct ;  and,  on  his  return  to  England  about  a  twelve- 
month since,  had  obtained  the  command  of  a  cavalry  regiment. 
Passionately  fond  of  his  profession,  he  entered  into  its  minutest 
duties  with  a  zeal  not  exceeded  by  the  youngest  and  poorest 
subaltern  in  the  army. 

His  manners  were  very  cold,  haughty,  collected,  and  self- 
possessed,  and  his  conversation  that  of  a  man  who  has  culti- 
vated his  intellect  rather  in  the  world  than  in  the  closet..  I 
mean,  that,  perfectly  ignorant  of  things,  he  was  driven  to  con- 
verse solely  upon  persons,  and,  having  imbibed  no  otlier 
philosophy  than  that  which  worldly  deceits  and  disappoint- 
ments bestow,  his  remarks,  though  shrewd,  were  bitterly  sar- 
castic, and  partook  of  all  the  ill-nature  for  which  a  very  scanty 
knowledge  of  the  world  gives  a  sour  and  malevolent  mind  so 
ready  an  excuse.  .      ^ 

"How  very  disagreeable  Lord  Borodaile.  i^J*r  .said  .Lady 
Flora,  when  the  object  of  the  remark'  turned'  away,  jand 
rejoined  some  idlers  of  his  corps.  '-:  ■ 

"  Disagreeable  !  "  said  Lady  Westborough.     "  I  think  him 


I40  THE   DISOWNED. 

charming  ;  he  is  so  sensible.  How  true  [his  remarks  on  the 
world  are  !  " 

Thus  is  it  always  :  the  young  judge  harshly  of  those  who 
undeceive  or  revolt  their  enthusiasm  ;  and  the  more  advanced 
in  years,  who  have  not  learned  by  a  diviner  wisdom  to  look 
upon  the  human  follies  and  errors  by  which  they  have  suffered, 
with  a  pitying  and  lenient  eye,  consider  every  maxim  of  severity 
on  those  frailties  as  the  proof  of  a  superior  knowledge,  and 
praise  that  as  a  profundity  of  thought  which  in  reality  is  but 
an  infirmity  of  temper. 

Clarence  is  now  engaged  in  a  minuet  de  la  cour,  with    the 

beautiful  Countess   of  ,  the   best   dancer  of  the    day    in 

England.  Lady  Flora  is  flirting  with  half  a  dozen  beaux,  the 
more  violently  in  proportion  as  she  observes  the  animation  with 
which  Clarence  converses,  and  the  grace  with  which  his  partner 
moves  ;  and,  having  thus  left  our  two  principal  personages 
occupied  and  engaged,  let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  a  room 
which  we  have  not  entered. 

This  is  a  forlorn,  deserted  chamber,  destined  to  cards,  which 
are  never  played  in  this  temple  of  Terpsichore.  At  the  far 
end  of  this  room,  opposite  to  the  fire-place,  are  seated  four 
men,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation. 

The  tallest  of  these  was  Lord  Quintown,  a  nobleman, 
remarkable  at  that  day  for  his  personal  advantages,  his  good 
fortunes  with  the  beau  sexe,  his  attempts  at  parliamentary  elo- 
quence, in  which  he  was  lamentably  unsuccessful,  and  his 
adherence  to  Lord  North.  Next  to  him  sat  Mr.  St.  George, 
the  younger  brother  of  Lord  St.  George,  a  gentleman  to  whom 
power  and  place  seemed  married  without  hope  of  divorce,  for, 
whatever  had  been  the  changes  of  ministry  for  the  last  twelve 
years,  he,  secure  in  a  lucrative,  though  subordinate  situation, 
had  "  smiled  at  the  whirlwind,  and  defied  the  storm,"  and,  while 
all  things  shifted  and  vanished  round  him,  like  clouds  and 
vapors,  had  remained  fixed  and  stationary  as  a  star.  "  Solid 
St.  George,"  was  his  appellative  by  his  friends,  and  his  enemies 
did  not  grudge  him  the  title.     The  third   was   the   minister 

for ;  and  the  fourth  was  Clarence's  friend,  Lord  Aspeden. 

Now  this  nobleman,  blessed  with  a  benevolent,  smooth,  calm 
countenance,  valued  himself  especially  upon  his  diplomatic 
elegance  in  turning  a  compliment. 

Having  a  great  taste  for  literature  as  well  as  diplomacy,  this 
respected  and  respectable  peer  also  possessed  a  curious  felicity 
for  applying  quotation  ;  and  nothing  rejoiced  him  so  much  as 
when,  in  the  same  phrase,  he  was  enab.'ed  to  set  the  two  jewels 


THE   DISOWNED.  l^t 

of  his  courtliness  of  flattery  and  his  profundity  of  erudition. 
Unhappily  enough,  his  compliments  were  seldom  as  well  taken 
as  they  were  meant  ;  and,  whether  from  the  ingratitude  of  the 
person  complimented,  or  the  ill-fortune  of  the  noble  adulator, 
seemed  sometimes  to  produce  indignation  in  place  of  delight. 
It  has  been  said  that  his  civilities  had  cost  Lord  Aspeden  four 
duels  and  one  beating ;  but  these  reports  were  probably  the 
malicious  invention  of  those  who  had  never  tasted  the  delicacies 
of  his  flattery. 

Now  these  four  persons,  being  all  members  of  the  Privy 
Council,  and  being  thus  engaged  in  close  and  earnest  confer- 
ence, were,  you  will  suppose,  employed  in  discussing  the 
gravities  and  secrets  of  state — no  such  thing :  that  whisper 
from  Lord  Quintown,  the  handsome  nobleman,  to  Mr.  St. 
George,  is  no  hoarded  and  valuable  information  which  would 
rejoice  the  heart  of  the  editor  of  an  opposition  paper,  no  dire- 
ful murmur,  "perplexing  monarchs  with  the  dread  of  change  "; 
it  is  only  a  recent  piece  of  scandal,  touching  the  virtue  of  a 
lady  of  the  court,  which  (albeit  the  sage  listener  seems  to  pay 
so  devout  an  attention  to  the  news)  is  far  more  interesting  to 
the  gallant  and  handsome  informant  than  to  his  brother  states- 
man ;  and  that  emphatic  and  vehement  tone  with  which  Lord 

Aspeden  is  assuring  the  minister  for of  some  fact,  is  merely 

an  angry  denunciation  of  the  chicanery  practiced  at  the  last 
Newmarket. 

"  By  the  bye,  Aspeden,"  said  Lord  Quintown,  "  who  is  that 
good-looking  fellow  always  flirting  with  Lady  Flora  Ardenne — 
an  attache  of  yours,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Linden,  I  suppose  you  mean.  A  very  sensible,  clever 
young  fellow,  who  has  a  great  genius  for  business,  and  plays 
the  flute  admirably.  I  must  have  him  for  my  secretary,  my 
dear  lord,  mind  that." 

"With  such  a  recommendation,  Lord  Aspeden,"  said  the 
minister,  with  a  bow,  "  the  state  would  be  a  great  loser  did  it 
not  elect  your  attach^,  who  plays  so  admirably  on  the  flute,  to 
the  office  of  your  secretary.     Let  us  join  the  dancers." 

"I  shall  go  and   talk  with  Count  B ,"  quoth   Mr.  St, 

George. 

"  And  I  shall  make  my  court  to  his  beautiful  wife,"  said  the 
minister,  sauntering  into  the  ballroom,  to  which  his  fine  person 
and  graceful  manner  were  much  better  adapted  than  was  his 
genius  to  the  cabinet,  or  his  eloquence  to  the  senate. 

The  morning  had  long  dawned,  and  Clarence,  for  whose 
mind  pleasure  was  more  fatiguing  than  business,  lingered  near 


142  THE    DISOWNED. 

the  door,  to  catch  one  last  look  of  Lady  Flora  before  he  retired. 
He  saw  her  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Borodaile,  and  hastening  to 
join  the  dancers,  with  her  usual  light  step  and  laughing  air  ; 
for  Clarence's  short  conference  with  her  had,  in  spite  of  his 
subsequent  flirtations,  rendered  her, happier  than  she  had  ever 
felt  before.  Again  a  change  passed  over  Clarence's  counte- 
nance— a  change  which  I  find  it  difficult  to  express  without 
borrowing  from  those  celebrated  German  dramatists  who  could 
portray  in  such  exact  colors  "  a  look  of  mingled  joy,  sorrow, 
hope,  passion,  rapture,  and  despair,"  for  the  look  was  not  that 
of  jealousy  alone,  although  it  certainly  partook  of  its  nature, 
but  a  little  also  of  interest,  and  a  little  of  sorrow  ;  and  when 
he  turned  away,  and  slowly  descended  the  stairs,  his  eyes  were 
full  of  tears,  and  his  thoughts  far — far  away  ;  whither  ? 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  Quae  fert  adolescentia 
Ea  ne  me  celet  consuefeci  filium."  * — Terent. 

The  next  morning  Clarence  was  lounging  over  his  break- 
fast, and  glancing  listlessly  now  at  the  pages  of  the  newspa- 
pers,  now  at  the  various  engagements  for  the  week,  which  lay 
confusedly  upon  his  table,  when  he  received  a  note  from  Tal- 
bot, requesting  to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  Had  it  not  been  for  that  man,"  said  Clarence  to  himself, 
"  what  should  I  have  been  now  ?  But,  at  least,  I  have  not  dis- 
graced his  friendship.  I  have  already  ascended  the  roughest, 
because  the  lowest,  steps  on  the  hill  where  Fortune  builds  her 
temple.  I  have  already  won  for  the  name  I  have  chosen  some 
'golden  opinions,'  to  gild  its  obscurity.  One  year  more  may 
confirm  my  destiny,  and  ripen  hope  into  success  :  then — then. 
I  may  perhaps  throw  off  a  disguise  that,  while  it  befriended, 
has  not  degraded  me,  and  avow  myself  to  her!  Yet  how 
much  better  to  dignify  the  name  I  have  assumed,  than  to  owe 
respect  only  to  that  which  I  have  not  been  deemed  worthy  to 
inherit.  VVell,  well,  these  are  bitter  thoughts  ;  let  them  turn 
to  others.  How  beautiful  Flora  looked  last  night  ?  and  he — 
he — but  enough  of  this  :  I  must  dress,  and  then  to  Talbot." 

Muttering  these  wayward  fancies,  Clarence  rose,  completed 
his  toilet,  sent  for  his  horses,  and  repaired  to  a  village  about 
seven  miles  from  London,  where  Talbot,   having  yielded   to, 

*  "  The  things  which  youth  proposes  I  accustomed  my  son,  that  he  should  never  conceal 
from  me.'" 


THfi   DISOWNED.  I4J 

Clarence's  fears  and  solicitations,  and  left  his  former  insecure 
tenement,  now  resided  under  the  guard  and  care  of  an  espe- 
cial and  private  watchman. 

It  was  a  pretty,  quiet  villa,  surrounded  by  a  plantation  and 
pleasure-ground  of  some  extent  for  a  suburban  residence,  in 
which  the  old  philosopher  (for  though,  in  some  respects,  still 
frail  and  prejudiced,  Talbot  deserved  that  name)  held  his 
home.  The  ancient  servant,  on  whom  four  years  had  passed 
lightly  and  favoringly,  opened  the  door  to  Clarence,  with  his 
usual  smile  of  greeting,  and  familiar,  yet  respectful,  salutation, 
and  ushered  our  hero  into  a  room  furnished  with  the  usual 
fastidious  and  rather  feminine  luxury  which  characterized  Tal- 
bot's tastes.  Sitting  with  his  back  turned  to  the  light,  in  a 
large  easy-chair,  Clarence  found  the  wreck  of  the  once  gallant, 
gay  Lothario. 

There  was  not  much  alteration  in  his  countenance  since  we 
last  saw  him  ;  the  lines,  it  is  true,  were  a  little  more  decided, 
and  the  cheeks  a  little  more  sunken,  but  the  dark  eye  beamed 
with  all  its  wonted  vivacity,  and  the  delicate  contour  of  the 
mouth  preserved  all  its  physiognomical  characteristics  of  the  in- 
ward man.  He  rose  with  somewhat  more  difficulty  than  he 
was  formerly  wont  to  do,  and  his  limbs  had  lost  much  of  their 
symmetrical  proportions  ;  yet  the  kind  clasp  of  his  hand  was  as 
'firm  and  warm  as  when  it  had  pressed  that  of  the  boyish  attacJU 
four  years  since;  and  the  voice  which  expressed -his  saluta- 
tion yet  breathed  its  unconquered  suavity  and  distinctness  of 
modulation.  After  the  customary  greetings  and  inquiries  were 
given  and  returned,  the  young  man  drew  his  chair  near  to  Tal- 
bot's and  said  : 

"  You  sent  for  me,  dear  sir  ;  have  you  anything  more  impor- 
tant than  usual  to  impart  to  me ! — or — and  I  hope  this  is  the 
case — have  you  at  last  thought  of  any  commission,  however 
trifling,  in  the  execution  of  which  I  can  be  of  use  ?" 

"  Yes,  Clarence,  I  wish  your  judgment  to  select  me  some 
strawberries — you  know  that  I  am  a  great  epicure  in  fruit — and 
get  me  the  new  work  Dr.  Johnson  has  just  published.  There, 
are  you  contented  ?  And  now,  tell  me  all  about  your  horse,  does 
he  step  well  ?  Has  he  the  true  English  head  and  shoulder? 
Are  his  legs  fine,  yet  strong?  Is  he  full  of  spirit  and  devoid 
of  vice  ?" 

"  He  is  all  this,  sir,  thanks  to  you  for  him." 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Talbot— 

'  Old  as  I  am,  for  riding  feats  unfit, 
The  shape  of  horses  I  lemember  yet.' 


144  •*•«£  DISOWNED. 

And  now  let  us  hear  how  you  likeRanelagh  !  and  above  all 
how  you  liked  the  ball  last  night  ?" 

And  the  vivacious  old  man  listened  with  the  prof oundest  ap- 
pearance of  interest  to  all  the  particulars  of  Clarence's  ani- 
mated detail.  His  vanity,  which  made  him  wish  to  be  loved, 
had  long  .  since  taught  him  the  surest  method  of  becoming 
so;  and  with  him,  every  visitor,  old,  young,  the  man  of  books, 
or  the  disciple  of  the  world,  was  sure  to  find  the  readiest  and 
even  eagerest  sympathy  in  every  amusement  or  occupation. 
But  for  Clarence,  this  interest  lay  deeper  than  in  the  sur- 
face of  courtly  breeding.  Gratitude  had  first  bound  to  him 
his  adopted  son,  then  a  tie.  yet  unexplained,  and  lastly,  but 
not  least,  the  pride  of  protection.  He  was  vain  of  the  person- 
al and  mental  attractions  of  \\\%  protdgS,  and  eager  for  the  suc- 
cess of  one  whose  honors  would  reflect  credit  on  himself. 

But  there  was  one  part  of  Clarence's  account  of  the  last 
night  to  which  the  philosopher  paid  a  still  deeper  attention, 
and  on  which  he  was  more  minute  in  his  advice ;  what  this 
was,  I  cannot,  as  yet,  reveal  to  the  Reader. 

The  conversation  then  turned  on  light  and  general  matters. 
The  scandals,  the  literature,  the  politics,  the  on  diis  of  the  day; 
and  lastly  upon  women  ;  thence  Talbot  dropped  into  his  office 
of  Mentor. 

"  A  celebrated  cardinal  said,  very  wisely,  that  few  ever  did 
anything  among  men  until  women  were  no  longer  an  object 
to  them.  That  is  the  reason,  by  the  bye,  why  I  never  succeeded 
with  the  former,  and  why  people  seldom  acquire  any  reputation 
except  for  a  hat,  or  a  horse,  till  they  marry.  Look  round  at 
the  various  occupations  of  life.  How  few  bachelors  are  emi- 
nent in  any  of  them  !  So  you  see,  Clarence,  you  will  have 
my  leave  to  marry  Lady  Flora  as  soon  as  you  please." 

Clarence  colored,  and  rose  to  depart.  Talbot  followed  him 
to  the  door,  and  then  said,  in  a  careless  way,  *'  By  the  bye,  I 
had  almost  forgotten  to  tell  you  that,  as  you  have  now  many 
new  expenses,  you  will  find  the  yearly  sum  you  have  hitherto 
received  doubled.  To  give  you  this  information  is  the  chief 
reason  why  I  sent  for  you  this  morning.  God  bless  you,  my 
dear  boy." 

And  Talbot  shut  the  door,  despite  his  politeness,  in  the  face 
and  thanks  of  his  adopted  son. 


ti!£  DlSOWNEl).  145 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

*'  There  is  a  great  difference  between  seeking  to  raise  a  laugh  from  every- 
thing, and  seeking  in  everything  what  may  justly  be  laughed  at. " — Lord 
Shaftesbury. 

Behold  our  hero,  now  in  the  zenith  of  distinguished  dissi- 
pations !  Courteous,  attentive,  and  animated,  the  women  did 
not  esteem  him  the  less  for  admiring  them  rather  than  himself ; 
while  by  the  gravity  of  his  demeanor  to  men — the  eloquent, 
yet  unpretending  flow  of  his  conversation,  whenever  topics  of 
intellectual  interest  were  discussed — the  plain  and  solid  sense 
which  he  threw  into  his  remarks,  and  the  avidity  with  which  he 
courted  the  society  of  all  distinguished  for  literary  or  political 
eminence,  he  was  silently,  but  surely,  establishing  himself  in 
esteem  as  well  as  popularity,  and  laying  the  certain  foundation 
of  future  honor  and  success.  •    ;r;l     : 

Thus,  although  he  had  only  been  four  months  returned  to 
England,  he  was  already  known  and  courted  in  every  circle, 
and  universally  spoken  of  as  among  "  the  most  rising  young 
gentlemen  "  whom  fortune  and  the  administration  had  marked 
for  their  own.  His  history,  during  the  four  years  in  which  we 
have  lost  sight  of  him,  is  briefly  told. 

He  soon  won  his  way  into  the  good  graces  of  Lord  Aspeden  ; 
became  his  private  secretary,  and  occasionally  his  confidant. 
Universally  admired  for  his  attraction  of  form  and  manner, 
and,  though   aiming  at  reputation,  not  averse  to  pleasure,  he 

had  that  position  which  fashion  confers  at  the  Court  of , 

when    Lady  Westborough  and  her  beautiful  daughter,   then 

only  seventeen,  came  to ,  in  the  progress  of  a  continental 

tour,  about  a  year  before  her  return  to  England.  Clarence 
and  Lady  Flora  were  naturally  brought  much  together  in  the 
restricted  circle  of  a  small  court,  and  intimacy  soon  ripened 
into  attachment. 

Lord  Aspeden  being  recalled,  Clarence  accompanied  him  to 
England  ;  andtheex-minister,really  liking  much  one  who  was  so 
useful  to  him,  had  faithfully  promised  to  procure  him  the  office 
and  honor  of  secretary  whenever  his  lordship  should  be  reap- 
pointed Minister. 

Three  intimate  acquaintances  had  Clarence  Linden.  The 
one  was  the  Honorable  Henry  Trollolop,  the  second  Mr.  Cally- 
thorpe,  and  the  third  Sir  Christopher  Findlater.  We  will 
sketch  them  to  you  in  an  instant.     Mr.  Trollolop  was  a  short, 


I4&  THE   DISOWNED. 

Stout  gentleman,  with  a  very  thoughtful  countenance. — that  is 
to  say,  he  wore  spectacles,  and  took  snuff.  Mr.  Trollolop — we 
delight  in  pronouncing  that  soft,  liquid  name — was  eminently 
distinguished  by  a  love  of  metaphysics — metaphysics  were  in  a 
great  measure  the  order  of  the  day  ;  but  fate  had  endowed  Mr. 
Trollolop  with  a  singular  and  felicitous  confusion  of  ideas.  Reid, 
Berkeley,  Cudworth,  Hobbes,  all  lay  jumbled  together  in  most 
edifying  chaos  at  the  bottom  of  Mr.  Trollolop's  capacious 
mind ;  and  whenever  he  opened  his  mouth,  the  imprisoned 
enemies  came  rushing  and  scrambling  out,  overturning  and 
contradicting  each  other,  in  a  manner  quite  astonishing  to  the 
ignorant  spectator.  Mr.  Callythorpe  was  meagre,  thin,  sharp, 
and  yellow.  Whether  from  having  a  great  propensity  for  nail- 
ing stray  acquaintances,  or  being  particularly  heavy  company, 
or  from  any  other  cause  better  known  to  the  wits  of  the  period 
than  to  us,  he  was  occasionally  termed  by  his  friends  the 
"yellow-hammer."  The  peculiar  characteristics  of  this  gen- 
tleman were  his  sincerity  and  friendship.  These  qualities  led 
him  into  saying  things  the  most  disagreeable,  with  the  civilest 
and  coolest  manner  in  tlie  world — always  prefacing  them  with, 
"  You  know,  my  dear  so  and  so,  /  am  your  true  friend."  If 
this  proof  of  amity  was  now  and  then  productive  of  altercation, 
Mr.  Callythorpe,  who  was  a  great  patriot,  had  another  and  a 
nobler  piea :  "  Sir,"  he  would  say,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
heart — "  sir,  I'm  an  Englishman — I  know  not  what  it  is  to 
feign."  Of  a  very  different  stamp  was  Sir  Christopher  Find- 
later.  Little  cared  he  for  the  subtleties  of  the  human  mind, 
and  not  much  more  more  for  the  disagreeable  duties  of  "  an 
Englishman."  Honest  and  jovial — red  in  the  cheeks — empty 
in  the  head — born  to  twelve  thousand  a  year — educated  in  the 
country,  and  heir  to  an  earldom,  Sir  Christopher  Findlater 
piqued  himself,  notwithstanding  his  worldly  advantages,  usually 
so  destructive  to  the  kindlier  affections,  on  having  the  best 
heart  in  the  world,  and  this  good  heart,  having  a  very  bad 
head  to  regulate  and  support  it,  was  the  perpetual  cause  of 
error  to  the  owner  and  evil  to  the  public. 

One  evening,  when  Clarence  was  alone  in  his  rooms,  Mr. 
Trollolop  entered. 

"  My  dear  Linden,"  said  the  visitor,  "  how  are  you  ?  " 

"I  am,  as  I  hope  you  are,  very  well,"  answered  Clarence. 

"The  human  mind,"  said  Trollolop,  taking  off  his  great 
coat — 

"  Sir  Christopher  Findlater,  and  Mr.  Callythorpe,  sir,"  said 
the  valet. 


THE    DISOWNED,  I47 

"  Pshaw  !  What  has  Sir  Christopher  Findlater  to  do  with 
the  human   mind  ?  "  muttered  Mr.  Trollolop. 

Sir  Christopher  entered  with  a  swagger  and  a  laugh.  "Well, 
old  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ?     Deuced  cold  this  evening." 

"  Though  it  t's  an  evening  in  May,"  observed  Clarence  ; 
"but  then,  this  cursed  climate." 

"Climate  !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Callythorpe,  "  it  is  the  best  cli- 
mate in  the  world  :  I'm  an  Englishman,  and  I  never  abuse  my 
country. 

'  England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still ! '  " 

"As  to  climate,"  said  Trollolop,  "there  is  no  climate,  neither 
here  nor  elsewhere  :  the  climate  is  in  your  mind,  the  chair  is 
in  your  mind,  and  the  table  too,  though  I  dare  say  you  are  stu- 
pid enough  to  think  the  two  latter  are  in  the  room  ;  the  human 
mind,  my  dear  Findlater — " 

"  Don't  Mt'nd  me,  Trollolop,"  cried  the  baronet,  "  I  can't 
bear  your  clever  heads  ;  give  me  a  good  heart — that's  worth 
all  the  heads  in  the  world,  d — n  me  if  it  is  not !  Eh,  Lin- 
den!" \  , 

"  Your  good  heart,"  cried  Trollolop,  in  a  passiou — (for.  all 
your  self-called  philosophers  are  a  little  choleric) — "your  good, 
heart  is  all  cant  and  nonsense — there  is  no  heart  at  all — we  are 
all  mind."  ,.  , 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm  all  mind,"  said  tlie  baronet 

"At  least,"  quoth  Linden  gravely,  "nooneever  accused  you, 
of  it  before." 

"  We  are  all  mind,"  pursued  the  reasoner  ;  "  we  are  all  mind, 
un  moidlin  a  raisoniument.  Our  ideas  are  derived  from  two 
sources,  sensation  or  memory.  That  neither  our  thoughts,  nor 
passions,  nor  ideas  formed  by  the  imagination,  exist  without 
the  mind,  everybody  will  allow;*  therefore,  you  see,  the 
human  mind  is — in  short,  theije  J9  nothing  iit  jth^  world  jiut  the 
human  mind  !"  .  \  •.    ;  i-j     ;.,.'.    ,    ^  ■    .. 

."Nothing  could  be  better  demonstrated,"  said  Clarence. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  quoth  the  baronet.  .  _      s,.^ 

"  But  you  do  believe  it,  and  you  must  believe  it,"  cried 
Trollolop;  "for  'the  Supreme  Being  has  implanted  within  us 
the  principle  of  credulity.'  and  therefore  you  do  believe  it." 

"But  I  don't,"  cried  Sir  Christopher. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  replied  the  metaphysician  calmly; 
"  because  I  must  speak  truth."  , 

"  Why  must  you,  pray  ?  "  said  the  baronet. 

♦  Perkelcy  ;  Sect.  iii.  ■"  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge." 


148  THE    DISOWNED, 

"Because,"  answered  Trollolop,  taking  snuff,  "there  is  a 
principle  of  veracity  implanted  in  our  nature." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  metaphysician,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  for  you  know,  my  dear  Lin- 
den," said  Callythorpe,  "that  1  am  your  true  friend,  and  I 
must  therefore  tell  you  that  you  are  shamefully  ignorant.  You 
are  not  offended  ?" 

"  Not  at  all !  "  said  Clarence,  trying  to  smile. 

"And  you,  my  dear  Findlater"  (turning  to  the  baronet), 
"you  know  that  I  wish  you  well — you  know  that  I  never  flatter, 
I'm  your  real  friend,  so  you  must  not  be  angry ;  but  you  really 
are  not  considered  a  Solomon." 

"  Mr,  Callythorpe  !  "  exclaimed  the  baronet,  in  a  rage  (the 
best-hearted  people  can't  always  bear  truth),  "what  do  you 
mean  !  " 

"  You  must  not  be  angry,  my  good  sir — you  must  not,  really, 
I  can't  help  telling  you  of  your  faults,  for  I  am  a  true  Briton, 
sir,  a  true  Briton,  and  leave  lying  to  slaves  and  Frenchmen." 

"You  are  in  an  error,"  said  Trollolop;  "Frenchmen  don't 
lie,  at  least  not  naturally,  for  in  the  human  mind,  as  I  before 
said,  the  Divine  Author  has  implanted  a  principle  of  veracity 
which—  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  interrupted  Callythorpe,  very  affectionately, 
"you  remind  me  of  what  people  say  oi you." 

"  Memory  may  be  reduced  to  sensation,  since  it  is  only  a 
weaker  sensation,"  quoth  Trollolop  ;  but  proceed." 

"You  know,  Trollolop,"  said  Callythorpe,  in  a  singularly 
endearing  intonation  of  voice,  "  you  know  that  I  never  flatter: 
flattery  is  unbecoming  a  true  friend — nay,  more,  it  is  unbecom- 
ing a  native  of  our  happy  isles,  and  people  do  say  of  you  that 
you  know  nothing  whatsoever,  no,  not  an  iota,  of  all  the  nonsen- 
sical, worthless  philosophy  of  which  you  are  always  talking. 
Lord  St.  George  said  the  other  day,  that  you  were  very  con- 
ceited'— 'No,  not  conceited,'  replied  Dr. ,  'only  ignorant,' 

so  if  I  were  you,  Trollolop,  I  would  cut  metaphysics — you're 
not  offended?" 

"By  no  means,"  cried  Trollolop,  foaming  at  the  mouth. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher,  whose 
wrath  had  now  subsided,  rubbing  his  hands— ""for  my  part,  I 
see  no  good  in  any  of  those  things  :  I  never  read — never — and 
I  don't  see  how  I'm  a  bit  the  worse  for  it.  A  good  man,  Lin- 
den, in  my  opinion,  only  wants  to  do  his  duty,  and  that  is  very 
easily  done." 

"  A  good  man  ! — and  what  is  good  ? "  cried  the  metaphysi- 


THE    DISOWNED.  I45 

cian  triumphantly.  "Is  it  implanted  within  us?  Hobbes, 
according  to  Reid,  who  is  our  last,  and  consequently  best, 
philosopher,  endeavors  to  demonstrate  that  there  is  no  differ- 
ence between  right  and  wrong." 

"I   have  no  idea  of  what  you  mean,"  cried  Sir  Christopher. 

"  Idea  !  "  exclaimed  the  pious  philosopher.  *'  Sir,  give  me 
leave  to  tell  you  that  no  solid  proof  has  ever  been  advanced  of 
the  existence  of  ideas;  they  are  a  mere  fiction  and  hypothesis. 
Nay,  sir,  'hence  arises  that  skepticism  which  disgraces  our  phi- 
losophy of  the  mind.'  Ideas  ! — Findlater,  you  are  a  skeptic  and 
an  idealist." 

"I?"  cried  the  affrighted  baronet  ;"  upon  my  honor  I  am 
no  such  a  thing.  Everybody  knows  that  I  am  a  Christian, 
and — " 

"Ah  !  "  interrupted  Callythorpe,  with  a  solemn  look,  "every- 
body knows  that  you  are  not  one  of  those  horrid  persons — • 
those  atrocious  deists,  and  atheists,  and  skeptics,  from  whom 
the  church  and  freedom  of  old  England  have  suffered  such 
danger.  :  I  am  a  true  Briton  of  the  good  old  school ;  and  I  con- 
fess, Mr.  TroUolop,  that  I  do  not  like  to  hear  any  opinions  but 
the  right  ones." 

"Right  ones  being  only  those  which  Mr.  Callythorpe  pro- 
fesses," said  Clarence. 

"  Exactly  so  ! "  rejoined  Mr.  Callythorpe, 

"  The  human  mind," — commenced  Mr.  Trollolop,  stirring  the 
fire  ;  when  Clarence,  who  began  to  be  somewhat  tired  of  this 
conversation,  rose.  "You  will  excuse  me,"  said  he,  "  but  I  am 
particularly  engaged,  and  it  is  time  to  dress.  Harrison  will  get 
you  tea,  or  whatever  else  you  are  inclined  for." 

"The  human  mind,"  renewed  Trollolop,  not  heeding  the 
interruption  ;  and  Clarence  forthwith  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"  You  blame  Marcius  for  being  proud." — Coriolanus. 
"  Here  is  another  fellow,  a  marvellous  pretty  hand  at  fashioning  a  compli- 
ment."—  I'he  Tanner  of  Tyburn. 

There  was  a  brilliant  ball  at  Lady  T — — 's,  a  personage  who, 
every  one  knows,  did,  in  the  year  17 — ,  give  the  best  balls,  and 
have  the  best-dressed  people  at  them,  in  London.  It  was  about 
half-past  twelve,  when  Clarence,  released  from  his  three  friends, 
ffrrived  at  the  countess's.     When  he  entered,  the  first  thing 


150  THE    DISOWNED. 

which  Struck  him  was  Lord  Borodaile  in  close  conversation 
with  Lady  Flora. 

Clarence  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  sauntering 
towards  them,  caught  Flora's  eye — colored,  and  advanced. 
Now,  if  there  was  a  haughty  man  in  Europe,  it  was  Lord  Bor- 
odaile. He  was  not  proud  of  his  birth,  nor  fortune,  but  he 
was  proud  of  himself ;  and,  next  to  that  pride,  he  was  proud  of 
being  a  gentleman.  He  had  an  exceeding  horror  of  all  com- 
mon people  ;  a  Claverhouse-sort  of  supreme  contempt  to  "  pud- 
dle blood  ";  his  lip  seemed  to  wear  scorn  as  a  garment  ;  a  lofty 
and  stern  self-admiration,  rather  than  self-love,  sat  upon  his 
forehead  as  on  a  throne.  He  had,  as  it  were,  an  awe  of  him- 
self ;  his  thoughts  were  so  many  mirrors  of  Viscount  Borodaile, 
dressed  en  dieu.  His  mind  was  a  little  Versailles,  in  which  self 
sate  like  Louis  XIV.,  and  saw  nothing  but  pictures  of  its  self, 
sometimes  as  Jupiter,  and  sometimes  as  Apollo.  What  marvel, 
then,  that  Lord  Borodaile  was  a  very  unpleasant  companion  : 
for  every  human  being  he  had  "  something  of  contempt."  His 
eye  was  always  eloquent  in  disdaining :  to  the  plebeian  it  said, 
"You  are  not  a  gentleman";  to  the  prince,  "You  are  not 
Lord  Borodaile." 

Yet,  with  all  this,  he  had  his  good  points.  He  was  brave  as 
a  lion  ;  strictly  honorable  ;  and  though  very  ignorant,  and  very 
self-sufficient,  had  that  sort  of  dogged  good  sense  which  one 
very  often  finds  in  men  of  stern  hearts,  who,  if  they  have  many 
prejudices,  have  little  feeling,  to  overcome. 

Very  stiffly,  and  very  haughtily,  did  Lord  Borodaile  draw  up, 
when  Clarence  approached,  and  addressed  Lady  Flora ;  much 
more  stiffly,  and  much  more  haughtily,  did  he  return,  though 
with  old-fashioned  precision  of  courtesy,  Clarence's  bow,  when 
Lady  Westborough  introduced  them  to  each  other.  Not  that 
this  hauteur  was  intended  as  a  particular  affront ;  it  was  only 
the  agreeability  of  his  lordship's ^;^^«<rr<7/  manner. 

"Are  you  engaged?"  said  Clarence  to  Flora. 

"  I  am,  at  present,  to  Lord  Borodaile." 

"After  him,  may  I  hope?" 

Lady  Flora  nodded  assent,  and  disappeared  with  Lord  Boro- 
daile. 

His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of cameup  to  Lady  West- 
borough  ;  and  Clarence,  with  a  smiling  countenance  and  an 
absent  heart,  plunged  into  the  crowd.  There  he  met  Lord 
Aspeden,  in  conversation  with  the  Earl  of  Holdenworth,  one  of 
the  administration. 

"Ah,  Linden!"  said  the  diplomatist,  "let  me  introdv^ce  you 


THE   DISOWNEC.  igt 

to  Lord  Holdenworth — a  clever  young  man,  my  dear  lord,  and 
plays  the  flute  beautifully."  With  this  eulogium,  Lord  Aspe- 
den  glided  away  ;  and  Lord  Holdenworth,  after  some  conver- 
sation with  Linden,  honored  him  by  an  invitation  to  dinner  the 
next  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXHL 

*  Tis  true  his  nature  may  with  faults  abound  ; 
But  who  will  cavil  when  the  heart  is  sound  ?  " 

Stephen  Montague. 

"  Dum  vitant  stulti  vitia,  in  contraria  currunt."  * — Hor. 

.  The  next  day  Sir  Ghristopher  Findlater  called  on  Clarence. 
"Let  us  lounge  into  the  park,"  said  he. 

"  With  pleasure,"  replied  Clarence ;  and  into  the  park  they- 
lounged. 

By  the  way  they  met  a  crowd,  who  were  hurrying  a  man  to 
prison.  The  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher  stopped:  "Who  is 
that  poor  fellow  ? "  said  he. 

"It  is  the  celebrated" — (in  England  all  criminals  are  cele- 
brated. Thurtell  was  a  hero,  Thistlewood  a  patriot,  and  Faunt- 
leroy  was  discovered  to  be  exactly  like  Bonaparte!) — "  it  is  the 
celebrated  robber,  John  Jefferies,  who  broke  into  Mrs.  Wilson's 
house,  and  cut  the  throats  of  herself  and  her  husband,  wounded 
the  maid-servant,  and  split  tlie  child's  skull  with  the  poker." 

Clarence  pressed  forward:  "I  have  seen  that  man  before," 
thought  he.  He  looked  again,  and  recognized  the  face  of  the 
robber  who  had  escaped  from  Talbot's  house,  on  the  eventful 
night  which  had  made  Clarence's  fortune.  ]t  was  a  strongly 
marked  and  rather  handsome  countenance,  which  would  not 
be  easily  forgotten  ;  and  a  single  circumstance  of  excitement 
will  stamp  features  on  the  memory  as  deeply  as  the  common- 
place intercourse  of  years. 

"  John  Jeffries!"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  "  let  uscomeaway.'' 

"Linden,"  continued  Sir  Christopher,  "that  fellow  was  my 
servant  once.  He  robbed  me  to  some  considerable  extent.  I 
caught  him.  He  appealed  to  my  heart,  and  you  know,  my  dear 
fellow,  that  was  irresistible,  so  I  let  him  off.  Who  could  have 
thought  he  would  have  turned  out  so?"  And  the  baronet  pro- 
ceeded to  to  eulogize  his  own  good  nature,  by  which  it  is  just 
necessary  to  remark  that  one  miscreant  had  been  saved  for  a  few 
years  from  transportation,  in  order  to  rob  and  murder  ad  libi' 

*  The  foolish  while  avoiding  vice  run  into  the  opposite  extremes. 


152  THE   DISOWNED. 

turn,  and  having  fulfilled  the  office  of  a  common  pest,  to  suffer 
on  the  gallows  at  last.  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  have  a  good 
heart! 

Both  our  gentlemen  now  sunk  into  a  reverie,  from  which 
they  were  awakened,  at  the  entrance  of  the  park,  by  a  young 
man  in  rags,  who,  with  a  piteous  tone,  supplicated  charity. 
Clarence,  who,  to  his  honor  be  it  spoken,  spent  an  allotted  and 
considerable  part  of  his  income  in  judicious  and  laborious  be- 
nevolence, had  read  a  little  of  political  morals,  then  beginning 
to  be  understood,  and  walked  on.  The  good-hearted  baronet 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  gave  the  beggar  half  a  guinea, 
by  which  a  young,  strong  man,  who  had  only  just  commenced 
the  trade,  was  confirmed  in  his  imposition  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  ;  and,  instead  of  the  useful  support,  became  the  pernicious 
incumbrance,  of  society. 

Sir  Christopher  had  now  recovered  his  spirits. — "What's 
like  a  good  action?"  said  he  to  Clarence,  with  a  swelling 
breast. 

The  park  was  crowded  to  excess  ;  our  loungers  were  joined 
by  Lord  St,  George.  His  lordship  was  a  staunch  Tory.  He 
could  not  endure  Wilkes,  liberty,  or  general  education.  He 
launched  out  against  the  enlightenment  of  domestics.* 

"What  has  made  you  so  bitter  ?"  said  Sir  Christopher. 

"My  valet,"  cried  Lord  St.  George, — "he  has  invented  a  new 
toasting  fork,  is  going  to  take  out  a  patent,  make  his  fortune, 
and  leave  me ;  that's  what  I  call  ingratitude.  Sir  Christopher; 
for  I  ordered  his  wages  to  be  raised  five  pounds  but  last  year." 

"It  was  very  ungrateful,"  said  the  ironical  Clarence. 

"Very  !"  reiterated  the  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher. 

"  You  cannot  recommend  me  a  valet,  Findlater,"  renewed  his 
lordship,  "a  good,  honest,  sensible  fellow,  who  can  neither  read 
nor  write  ? " 

"  N-o-o — that  is  to  say,  yes  !  I  can  ;  my  old  servant  Col- 
lard,  is  out  of  place,  and  is  as  ignorant  as — as — " 

"I — or  you  are  ?"  said  Lord  St.  George,  with  a  laugh. 

•"Precisely,"  replied  the  baronet. 

"Well,  then,  I  take  your  recommendation:  send  him  to  me 
to-morrow  at  twelve." 

"  I  will,"  said  Sir  Christopher. 

"My  dear  Findlater,"  cried  Clarence,  when  Lord  St.  George 

♦  The  ancestors  of  our  present  footmen,  if  we  may  believe  Sir  William  Temple,  seem  t<» 
hare  been  to  the  full  as  intellectual  as  their  descendants.  "  I  have  had,"  observes  the  philo- 
sophic statesman,  "  several  servants  far  gone  in  divinity,  others  in  poetry  ;  have  known  ia 
the  families  of  some  friends,  a  keeper  deep  in  the  Rosicrucian  mysteries,  and  a  laundress 
fata  in  those  of  Epicurus." 


tat  DisoWNfib,  .  i^^ 

^as  gohe,  "  did  you  not  tell  me,  some  time  ago,  that  Collard 
was  a  great  rascal,  and  very  intimate  with  Jefferies?  and  now 
you  recommend  him  to  Lord  St.  George  ! " 

"  Hush,  hush,  hush  !"  said  the  baronet;  "he  was  a  great 
rogue  to  be  sure  ;  but  poor  fellow,  he  came  to  me  yesterday 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  said  he  should  starve  if  I  would  not 
give  him  a  character  ;  so  what   could  I  do?" 

"At  least,  tell  Lord  St.  George  the  truth,"  observed  Clarence. 

"  But  then  Lord  St.  George  would  not  take  him  ! "  rejoined 
the  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher,  with  forcible  naivete.  '*  No, 
no,  Linden,  we  must  not  be  so  hard-hearted  ;  we  must  forgive 
and  forget " ;  and  so  saying,  the  baronet  threw  out  his  chest, 
with  the  conscious  exultation  of  a  man  who  has  uttered  a  noble 
sentiment.  The  moral  of  this  little  history  is  that  Lord  St. 
George,  having  been  pillaged  "  through  thick  and  thin,"  as  the 
proverb  has  it,  for  two  years,  at  last  missed  a  gold  watch,  and 
Monsieur  Collard  finished  his  career  as  his  exemplary  tutor, 
Mr.  John  Jefferies,  had  done  before  him.  Ah,  what  a  fine 
thing  it  is  to  have  a  good  heart ! 

But  to  return,  just  as  our  wanderers  had  arrived  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  park,  Lady  Westborough  and  her  daughter 
passed  them.  Clarence,  excusing  himself  to  his  friends,  hastened 
towards  them,  and  was  soon  occupied  in  saying  the  prettiest 
tilings  in  the  world  to  the  prettiest  person,  at  least  in  his  eyes; 
while  Sir  Christopher,  having  done  as  much  mischief  as  a  good 
heart  well  can  do  in  a  walk  of  an  hour,  returned  home  to  write 
a  long  letter  to  his  mother,  against  "learning,  and  all  such  non- 
sense, which  only  served  to  blunt  the  affections  and  harden  the 
heart." 

"Admirable  young  man !"  cried  the  mother,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "A  good  heart  is  better  than  all  the  heads  in  the 
world." 

Amen — 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  Make  way,  Sir  Geoffrey  Peveril,  or  you  will  compel  me  to  do  that  1  may 
be  sorry  for ! "  «  .•  v 

"  You  shall  make  no  way  here  but  at  your  peril,"  said  Sir  Geoffrey  ;  ln» 
is  my  ground." — Peveril  of  the  Peak. 

One  night  on  returning  home  from  a  party  at  Lady  West- 
borough's  in  Hanover  Square,  Clarence  observed  a  man  before 
him  walking  with  an  uneven  and  agitated  step.  His  right  hand 
was  clenched,  and  he  frequently  raised  it  as  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, and  struck  fiercely  as  if  at  some  imagined  enemy. 


154  THE   DISOWnMS. 

The  stranger  slackened  his  pace.  Clarence  passed  him,  and, 
turning  round  to  satisfy  the  idle  curiosity  which  the  man's  ec- 
centric gestures  had  provoked,  his  eye  met  a  dark,  lowering, 
iron  countenance,  which,  despite  the  lapse  of  four  years,  he  rec- 
ognized on  the  moment — it  was  Wolfe,  the  republican. 

Clarence  moved,  involuntarily,  with  a  quicker  step  ;  but  in 
a  few  minutes,  Wolfe,  who  was  vehemently  talking  to  himself, 
once  more  passed  him  :  the  direction  he  took  was  also  Clar- 
ence's way  homeward,  and  he  therefore  followed  the  republican, 
though  at  some  slight  distance,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way.  A  gentleman  on  foot,  apparently  returning  from  a  party, 
met  Wolfe,  and,  with  an  air  half  haughty,  half  unconscious, 
took  the  wall;  thougli,  according  to  old-fashioned  rules  of  street 
courtesy,  he  was  on  the  wrong  side  for  asserting  the  claim. 
The  stern  republican  started,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  sturdily  and  doggedly  placed  himself  directly  in  the  way  of 
the  unjust  claimant.  Clarence  was  now  nearly  opposite  to  the 
two,  and  saw  all  that  was  going  on.  ■•' 

With  a  motion,  a  little  rude- and  very  contemptuous,  the  pass- 
enger attempted  to  put  Wolfe  aside,  and  win  his  path.  Little 
did  he  know  of  the  unyielding  nature  he  had  to  do  with  ;  the 
next  instant  the  republican,  with  a  strong  hand,  forced  him 
from  the  pavement  into  the  very  kennel,  and  silently  and  cold- 
ly continued  his  way. 

'    The  wrath   of  the  discomfited   passenger  was  vehemently 
kindled. 

"  Insolent  dog  !  "  cried  he,  in  a  loud  and  arrogant  tone,  '*  your 
baseness  is  your  protection."  Wolfe  turned  rapidly,  and  made 
but  two  strides  before  he  was  once  more  by  the  side  of  his  de- 
feated opponent. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  asked,  in  his  low,  deep,  hoarse 
voice. 

Clarence  stopped,  "  There  will  be  mischief  done  here," 
thought  he,  as  he  called  to  mind  the  stern  temper  of  the  repub- 
lican. 

"  Merely,"  said  the  other,  struggling  with  his  rage,  '*  that  it 
is  not  for  men  of  my  rank  to  avenge  the  insults  offered  us  by 
those  of  yours  !  " 

"Your  rank,"  said  Wolfe,  bitterly  retorting  the  contempt  of 
the  stranger,  in  a  tone  of  the  loftiest  disdain  ;  "your  rank,  poor 
changeling  !  And  what  are  you  that  you  should  lord  it  over 
me  ?  Are  your  limbs  stronger  .<•  your  muscles  firmer?  your  pro- 
portions juster  ?  your  mind  acuter?  your  conscience  clearer ? 
Fool — fool — go  home,  and  measure  yourself  with  lackeys ! " 


THE    DISOWNED.  ,  tjg 

The  republican  ceased,  and  pushing  the  stranger  aside,  turned 
slowly  away.  But  this  last  insult  enraged  the  passenger  beyond 
all  prudence.  Before  Wolfe  had  proceeded  two  paces,  he 
muttered  a  desperate  but  brief  oath,  and  struck  the  reformer 
with  a  strength  so  much  beyond  what  his  figure  (which  was 
small  and  slight)  appeared  to  possess,  that  the  powerful  and 
gaunt  frame  of  Wolfe  recoiled  backward  several  steps,  and,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  iron  railing  of  the  neighboring  area,  would 
have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

Clarence  pressed  forward  ;  the  face  of  the  rash  aggressor 
was  turned  towards  him  ;  the  features  were  Lord  Borodaile's. 
He  had  scarcely  time  to  make  this  discovery,  before  Wolfe  had 
recovered  himself.  With  a  wild  and  savage  cry,  rather  than 
exclamation,  he  threw  himself  upon  his  antagonist,  twined  his 
sinewy  arms  around  the  frame  of  the  struggling,  but  powerless, 
nobleman,  raised  him  in  the  air,  with  the  easy  strength  of  a 
man  lifting  a  child,  held  him  aloft  for  one  moment,  with  a 
bitter  and  scornful  laugh  of  wrathful  derision,  and  then  dashed 
him  to  the  ground,  and,  planting  his  foot  upon  Borodaile's 
breast  said  : 

*'  So  shall  it  be  with  all  of  you  :  there  shall  be  but  one  in- 
stant between  your  last  offence  and  your  first  but  final  debase- 
ment. Lie  there  !  it  is  your  proper  place!  By  the  only  law 
which  you  yourself  acknowledge,  the  law  which  gives  the  right 
divine  to  the  strongest ;  if  you  stir  limb  or  muscle,  I  will  crush 
the  breath  from  your  body." 

But  Clarence  was  now  by  the  side  of  Wolfe,  a  new  and  more 
powerful  opponent. 

"  Look  you,"  said  he  :  "  you  have  received  an  insult,  and  you 
have  done  justice  yourself.  I  condemn  the  offence,  and 
quarrel  not  with  you  for  the  punishment ;  but  that  punishment 
is  now  past  :  remove  your  foot,  or — " 

"What?"  shouted  Wolfe  fiercely,  his  lurid  and  vindictive 
eye  flashing  with  the  released  fire  of  long-pent  and  cherished 
passions. 

"Or,"  answered  Clarence  calmly,  "I  will  hinder  you  from 
committing  murder." 

At  that  instant  the  watchman's  voice  was  heard,  and  the 
night's  guardian  himself  was  seen  hastening  from  the  far  end 
of  the  street  towards  the  place  of  contest.  Whether  this  cir- 
cumstance, or  Clarence's  answer,  somewhat  changed  the  current 
of  the  republican's  thoughts,  or  whether  his  anger,  suddenly 
raised,  was  now  as  suddenly  subsiding,  it  is  not  easy  to  decide  ; 
but  he  slowly  and  deliberately  moved  his  foot  from  the  breast 


t^6  THE   DiSOWKfit). 

of  his  baffled  foe,  and,  bending  down,  seemed  endeavoring  to  as- 
certain the  mischief  he  had  done.  Lord  Borodaile  was  perfectly 
insensible. 

"You  have  killed  him  !"  cried  Clarence,  in  a  voice  of  horror, 
"but  you  shall  not  escape"  ;  and  he  placed  a  desperate  and 
nervous  hand  on  the  republican. 

"Stand  off,"  said  Wolfe,  "my  blood  is  up  !  I  would  not  do 
more  violence  to-night  than  I  have  done.  Stand  off  !  the  man 
moves  ;  see  ! " 

And  Lord  Borodaile,  uttering  a  long  sigh,  and  attempting  to 
rise,  Clarence  released  his  hold  of  the  republican,  and  bent 
down  to  assist  the  fallen  nobleman.  Meanwhile,  Wolfe,  mut- 
tering to  himself,  turned  from  the  spot,  and  strode  haughtily  away. 

The  watchman  now  came  up,  and,  with  his  aid,  Clarence 
raised  Lord  Borodaile.  Bruised,  stunned,  half  insensible  as  he 
was,  that  personage  lost  none  of  his  characteristic  stateliness  ; 
he  shook  off  the  watchman's  arm,  as  if  there  was  contamination 
in  the  touch  ;  and  his  countenance,  still  menacing  and  defying 
in  its  expression,  turned  abruptly  towards  Clarence,  as  if  he  yet 
expected  to  meet,  and  struggle  with,  a  foe. 

"  How  are  you,  my  lord?"  said  Linden  ;  "  not  severely  hurt, 
I  trust  ? " 

"  Well,  quite  well,"  cried  Borodaile.  "  Mr.  Linden,  I 
think  ? — I  thank  you  cordially  for  your  assistance ;  but  the 
dog — the  rascal — where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Gone,"  said  Clarence. 

"Gone!  Where — where?"  cried  Borodaile;  "that  living 
man  should  insult  me,  and  yet  escape  !  " 

"  Which  way  did  the  fellow  go  ?  "  said  the  watchman,  antici- 
pative  of  half-a-crown.  "  I  will  run  after  him  in  a  trice,  your 
honor — /  warrant  I  nab  him." 

"  No — no — "  said  Borodaile  haughtily  ;  "  I  leave  my  quar- 
rels to  no  man  ;  if  I  could  not  master  him  myself,  no  one  else 
shall  do  it  for  me.  Mr.  Linden,  excuse  me,  but  I  am  perfectly 
recovered,  and  can  walk  very  well  without  your  polite  assis- 
tance. Mr.  Watchman,  I  am  obliged  to  you  :  there  is  a  guinea 
to  reward  your  trouble." 

With  these  words,  intended  as  a  farewell,  the  proud  patrician, 
smothering  his  pain,  bowed  with  extreme  courtesy  to  Clar- 
ence— again  thanked  him,  and  walked  on  unaided,  and  alone. 

"  He  is  a  game  blood,"  said  the  watchman,  pocketing  the 
guinea. 

"  He  is  worthy  his  name,"  thought  Clarence  ;  "  though  he 
was  in  the  wrong,  ray  heart  yearns  to  him." 


THE   DISOWNED.  '  t^f 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
*•  Things  wear  a  vizard  which  I  think  to  like  not." —  Tanner  of  Tybttm. 

Clarence,  from  that  night,  appeared  to  have  formed  a  sud- 
den attachment  to  Lord  Borodaile.  He  took  every  oppor- 
tunity of  cultivating  his  intimacy,  and  invariably  treated  him 
with  a  degree  of  consideration  which  his  knowledge  of  the 
world  told  him  was  well  calculated  to  gain  the  good  will  of  his 
haughty  and  arrogant  acquaintance  ;  but  all  this  was  ineffectual 
in  conquering  Borodaile's  coldness  and  reserve.  To  have  been 
once  seen  in  a  huoiliating  and  degrading  situation  is  quite 
sufficient  to  make  a  proud  man  hate  the  spectator,  and,  with 
the  confusion  of  all  prejudiced  minds,  to  transfer  the  sore 
remembrance  of  the  event  to  the  association  of  the  witness. 
Lord  Borodaile,  though  always  ceremoniously  civil,  was  im- 
movably distant ;  and  avoided,  as  well  as  he  was  able,  Clar- 
ence's insinuating  approaches  and  address.  To  add  to  his 
indisposition  to  increase  his  acquaintance  with  Linden,  a  friend 
of  his,  a  captain  in  the  Guards,  once  asked  him  who  that  Mr. 
Linden  was  ?  and,  on  his  lordship's  replying  that  he  did  not 
know,  Mr.  Percy  Bobus,  the  son  of  a  wine-merchant,  though 
the  nephew  of  a  duke,  rejoined,  "Nobody  does  know." 

"Insolent  intruder!"  thought  Lord  Borodaile:  "  A  man 
whom  nobody  knows  to  make  such  advances  to  me  !  " 

A  still  greater  cause  of  dislike  to  Clarence  arose  from 
jealousy.  Ever  since  the  first  night  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Lady  Flora,  Lord  Borodaile  had  paid  her  unceasing  attention. 
In  good  earnest,  he  was  greatly  struck  by  her  beauty,  and  had 
for  the  last  year  meditated  the  necessity  of  presenting  the  world 
with  a  Lady  Borodaile.  Now,  though  his  lordship  did  look 
upon  himself  in  as  favorable  alight  as  a  man  well  can  do.  yet  he 
could  not  but  own  that  Clarence  Tvas  very  handsome — had  a 
devilish  gentlemanlike  air — talked  with  a  better  grace  than  the 
generality  of  young  men,  and  danced  to  perfection.  "  I 
detest  that  fellow  !  "  said  Lord  Borodaile,  involuntarily  and 
aloud,  as  these  unwilling  truths  forced  themselves  upon  his 
mind. 

"Whom  do  you  detest?"  asked  Mr.  Percy  Bobus,  who  was 
lying  on  the  sofa  in  Lord  Borodaile's  drawing-room,  and  ad- 
miring a  pair  of  red-heeled  shoes  which  decorated  his  feet. 

"That  puppy,  Linden  !"  said  Lord  Borodaile,  adjusting  his 
cravat. 

"  He  is  a  deuced  puppy,  certainly ! "  rejoined  Mr.  Percy 


15^  THE   DlSOWlJED. 

Bobus,   turning  round  to  contemplate  more  exactly  the  shape 
of  his  right  shoe.     "  I  can't  bear  conceit,  Borodaile." 

"  Nor  I — I  abhor  it — it  is  so  d — d  disgusting  !  "  replied  Lord 
Borodaile,  leaning  his  chin  upon  his  two  hands,  and  look- 
ing fully  into  the  glass.  "  Do  you  use  MacNeile's  divine 
pomatum  ? " 

"  No,  it's  too  hard ;  I  get  mine  from  Paris :  shall  I  send  you 
some  ?" 

"  Do,"  said  Lord  Borodaile. 

"  Mr.  Linden,  my  lord,"  said  the  servant,  throwing  open 
the  door  ;  and  Clarence  entered. 

"  I  am  very  fortunate,"  said  he,  with  that  smile  which  so  few 
ever  resisted,  "to  find  you  at  home,  Lord  Borodaile;  but  as 
the  day  was  wet,  I  thought  I  should  have  some  chance  of  that 
pleasure  ;  I  therefore  wrapped  myself  up  in  my  roquelaure, 
and  here  I  am  !  " 

Now,  nothing  could  be  more  diplomatic  than  the  compli- 
ment of  choosing  a  wet  day  for  a  visit,  and  exposing  one's  self 
to  "the  pitiless  shower,"  for  the  greater  probability  of  finding 
the  person  visited  at  home.  Not  so  thought  Lord  Borodaile  ;■ 
he  drew  himself  up,  bowed  very  solemnly,  and  said  with  cold 
gravity : 

"  You  are  very  obliging,  Mr.  Linden." 

Clarence  colored,  and  bit  his  lip  as  he  seated  himself.  Mr. 
Percy  Bobus,  with  true  insular  breeding,  took  up  the  newspaper. 

"  I  think  I  saw  you  at  Lady  C.'s  last  night,"  said  Clarence  ; 
"did  you  stay  there  long?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  Borodaile  ;  "  I  hate  her  parties." 

"  One  does  meet  such  odd  people  there,"  observed  Mr.  Percy 
Bobus  ;  "creatures  one  never  sees  anywhere  else." 

"I  hear,"  said  Clarence,  who  never  abused  any  one,  even  the 
givers  of  stupid  parties,  if  he  could  help  it,  and  therefore 
thought  it  best  to  change  the  conversation — "I  hear.  Lord 
Borodaile,  that  some  hunters  of  yours  are  to  be  sold.  I  pur- 
pose being  a  bidder  for  Thunderbolt." 

"I  have  a  horse  to  sell  you,  Mr.  Linden,"  cried  Mr.  Percy 
Bobus,  springing  from  the  sofa  into  civility;  "a  superb 
creature." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Clarence,  laughing;  "but  I  can  only 
afford  to  buy  one,  and  I  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Thunder- 
bolt." 

Lord  Borodaile,  whose  manners  were  very  antiquated  in 
their  affability,  bowed.  Mr.  Bobus  sank  back  into  his  sofa, 
gnd  resumed  the  paper. 


THE    DISOWNED.  Tjg 

A  pause  ensued.  Clarence  was  chilled  in  spite  of  himself. 
Lord  Borodaile  played  with  a  paper-cutter. 

"Have  you  been  to  Lady  Wesiborough's  lately?"  said  Clar- 
ence, breaking  silence. 

*'  I  was  there  last  night,"  replied  Lord  Borodaile, 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  Clarence.  "  1  wonder  I  did  not  see  you 
there,  for  I  dined  with  them." 

Lord  Borodaile's  hair  curled  itself.  "Ife  dined  there,  and 
I  only  asked  in  the  evening,"  thought  he ;  but  his  sarcastic 
temper  suggested  a  very  different  reply 

"Ah,"  said  he,  elevating  his  eyebrows,  "Lady  Westborough 
told  me  she  had  had  some  people  to  dinner,  whom  she  had 
been  ofi/iged  to  ask.  Bobus,  is  that  the 'Public  Advertiser'? 
See  whether  that  d— d  fellow  Junius  has  been  writing  any 
more  of  his  venomous  letters." 

Clarence  was  not  a  man  apt  to  take  offence,  but  he  felt  his 
bile  rise.  "It  will  not  do  to  show  it,"  thought  he  ;  so  he  made 
some  further  remark  in  a  jesting  vein  ;  and,  after  a  very  ill- 
sustained  conversation  of  some  minutes  longer,  rose,  appar- 
ently in  the  best  humor  possible,  and  departed,  with  a  solemn 
intention  never  again  to  enter  the  house.  Thence  he  went  to 
Lady  Westborough's. 

The  marchioness  was  in  her  boudoir  ;  Clarence  was,  as 
usual,  admitted,  for  Lady  Westborough  loved  amusement 
above  all  things  in  the  world,  and  Clarence  had  the  art  of 
affording  it  better  than  any  young  man  of  her  acquaintance. 
On  entering,  he  saw  Lady  Flora  hastily  retreating  through  an 
opposite  door.  She  turned  her  face  towards  him  for  one  mo- 
ment— that  moment  was  sufficient  to  freeze  his  blood  :  the 
large  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  which  were  as  white 
as  death,  and  the  expression  of  those  features,  usually  so 
laughing  and  joyous,  was  thatf)f  utter  and  ineffable  despair. 

Lady  Westborough  was  as  lively,  as  bland,  and  as  agreeable 
as  ever ;  but  Clarence  thought  he  detected  something  re- 
strained and  embarrassed  lurking  beneath  all  the  graces  of  her 
exterior  manner  ;  and  the  single  glance  he  had  caught  of  the 
pale  and  altered  face  of  Lady  Flora  was  not  calculated  to  re- 
assure his  mind  or  animate  his  spirits.  His  visit  was  short  ; 
when  he  left  the  room,  he  lingered  for  a  few  moments  in  the 
ante-chamhcr,  in  the  hope  of  again  seeing  Lady  Flora.  While 
thus  loitering,  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  Lady  Westborough's 
voice  :  "  When  Mr.  Linden  calls  again,  you  have  my  orders 
never  to  admit  him  into  this  room  ;  he  will  be  shown  into  the 
drawing-room," 


l6o  THE    DISOWNED. 

With  a  hasty  step  and  a  burning  cheek  Clarence  quitted  the 
house,  and  hurried,  first  to  his  soHtary  apartments,  and  thence, 
impatient  of  loneliness,  to  the  peaceful  retreat  of  his  bens- 
factor. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  A  maiden's  thoughts  do  check  my  trembling  hand." — Drayton. 

There  is  something  very  delightful  in  turning  from  the 
unquietness  and  agitation,  the  fever,  the  ambition,  the  hansh 
and  worldly  realities  of  man's  character  to  the  gentle  and  deep 
recesses  of  woman's  more  secret  heart.  Within  her  musings  is 
a  realm  of  haunted  and  fairy  thought,  to  which  the  things  of 
this  turbid  and  troubled  life  have  no  entrance.  What  to  her 
are  the  changes  of  state,  the  rivalries  and  contentions  which 
form  the  staple  of  our  existence  ?  For  her  there  is  an  intense 
and  fond  philosophy,  before  whose  eye  substances  flit  and  fade 
like  shadows,  and  shadows  grow  glowingly  into  truth.  Her 
soul's  creations  are  not  as  the  moving  and  mortal  images  seen 
in  the  common  day ;  they  are  things,  like  spirits  steeped  in  the 
dim  moonlight,  heard  when  all  else  are  still,  and  busy  when 
earth's  laborers  are  at  rest !     They  are 

"  Such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  their  little  life 
Is  rounded  by  a  sleep." 

Hers  is  the  real  and  uncentred  poetry  of  being,  which  pervades 
and  surrounds  her  as  with  an  air,  which  peoples  her  visions 
and  animates  her  love,  which  shrinks  from  earth  into  itself, 
and  finds  marvel  and  meditation  in  all  that  it  beholds  within, 
and  which  spreads  even  over  the  heaven  in  whose  faith  she  so 
ardently  believes,  the  mystery  and  the  tenderness  of  romance. 

LETTER  I. 
FROM    LADY    FLORA    ARDENNE    TO    MISS    ELEANOR    TREVANION. 

"  You  say  that  I  have  not  written  to  you  so  punctually  of 
late  as  I  used  to  do  before  I  came  to  London,  and  you  impute 
my  negligence  to  the  gaieties  and  pleasures  by  which  I  am  sur- 
rounded. Eh  Men  !  my  dear  Eleanor,  could  you  have  thought 
of  a  better  excuse  for  me  ?  You  know  how  fond  we — ay, 
dearest,  you  as  well  as  I — used  to  be  of  dancing,  and  how 
earnestly  we  were  wont  to  anticipate  those  children's  balls  at 
my  uncle's,  which  were  the  only  ones  we  were  ever  permitted 


THE   DISOWNED.  l6l 

to  attend.  I  found  a  stick  the  other  day,  on  which  I  had  cut 
seven  notches,  significant  of  seven  days  more  to  the  next  ball— . 
we  reckoned  time  by  balls  then,  and  danced  chronologically. 
Well,  my  dear  Eleanor,  here  I  am  now,  brought  out,  tolerably 
well-behaved,  only  not  dignified  enough,  according  to  mamma — 
as  fond  of  laughing,  talking,  and  dancing  as  ever ;  and  yet,  dc 
you  know,  a  ball,  though  still  very  delightful,  is  far  from  being 
the  most  important  event  in  creation  ;  its  anticipation  does  not 
keep  me  awake  of  a  night ;  and,  what  is  more  to  the  purpose, 
its  recollection  does  not  make  me  lock  up  my  writing-desk, 
burn  my  porte/euille,  and  forget  you,  all  of  which  you  seem  to 
imagine  it  has  been  able  to  effect. 

"No,  dearest  Eleanor,  you  are  mistaken  ;  for  were  she  twice 
as  giddy,  and  ten  times  as  volatile  as  she  is,  your  own  Flora 
could  never,  never  forget  you,  nor  the  happy  hours  we  have 
spent  together,  nor  the  pretty  goldfinches  we  had  in  common, 
nor  the  little  Scotch  duets  we  used  to  sing  together,  nor  our 
longings  to  change  them  into  Italian,  nor  our  disappointment 
when  we  did  so,  nor  our  laughter  at  Signior  Shrikalini,  nor  our 
tears  when  poor  darling  Bijou  died.  And  do  you  remember, 
dearest,  the  charming  green  lawn  where  we  used  to  play  to- 
gether, and  plan  tricks  for  your  governess?  She  was  very,  very 
cross  ;  though,  I  think,  we  were  a  little  to  blame,  too.  How- 
ever, I  was  much  the  worst  !  And  pray,  Eleanor,  don't  you 
remember  how  we  used  to  like  being  called  pretty,  and  told  of 
the  conquests  we  should  make!  Do  you  like  all  that  now  ?  For 
my  part,  I  am  tired  of  it,  at  least  from  the  generality  of  one's 
flatterers. 

"Ah!  Eleanor,  or  *  heigho  !' as  the  young  ladies  in  novels 

write,  do  you  remember  how  jealous  I  was  of  you  at ,  and 

how  spiteful  I  was,  and  how  you  were  an  angel,  and  bore  with 
me,  and  kissed  me,  and  told  me  that — that  I  had  nothing  to 
fear  ?    Well,  Clar — ,  I  mean  Mr.  Linden,  is  now  in  town,  and 

so  popular,  and  so  admired  !     I  wish  we  were  at again,  for 

there  we  saw  him  every  day,  and  now  we  don't  meet  more  than 
three  times  a  week  :  and  though  I  like  hearing  him  praised 
above  all  things,  yet  I  feel  very  uncomfortable  Avhen  that  praise 

comes  from  very,  very  pretty  women.     1  wish  we  were  at j- 

again  !  Mamma,  who  is  looking  more  beautiful  than  ever,  is 
very  kind  !  she  says  nothing,  to  be  sure,  but  she  must  see  how — 
that  is  to  say — she  must  know  that — that  I — I  mean  that 
Clarence  is  very  attentive  to  me,  and  that  I  blush  and  look  ex- 
ceedingly silly  whenever  he  is  ;  and  therefore  I  suppose  that 
whenever  Clarence  thinks  fit  to  ask  me,  I  shall  not  be  unda 


l62  THE    DISOWNED. 

the  necessity  of  getting  up  at  six  o'clock,  and  travelling  to 
Gretna  Green,  through  that  odious  North-road,  up  the  High- 
gate-hill,  and  over  Finchley-common. 

"'But  when  will  he  ask  you  ?'  My  dearest  Eleanor,  that  is 
more  than  I  can  say.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  there  is  someiiiing 
about  Linden  which  I  cannot  thoroughly  understand.  They  say 
he  is  a  nephew  and  heir  to  the  Mr.  Talbot  whom  you  may  have 
heard  papa  talk  of ;  but  if  so,  why  the  hints,  the  insinuations,  of 
not  being  what  he  seems,  which  Clarence  perpetually  throws 
out,  and  which  only  excite  my  interest  without  gratifying  my 
curiosity?  'It  is  not,'  he  has  said,  more  than  once,  'as  an 
obscure  adventurer  that  I  will  claim  your  love':  and  if  I 
venture,  which  is  very  seldom  (for  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  him), 
to  question  his  meaning,  he  either  sinks  into  utter  silence,  for 
which,  if  I  had  loved  according  to  book,  and  not  so  naturally,  I 
should  be  very  angry  with  him,  or  twist  his  words  into  another 
signification,  such  as  that  he  would  not  claim  me  till  he  had 
become  something  higher  and  nobler  than  he  is  now.  Alas, 
my  dear  Eleanor,  it  takes  a  long  time  to  make  an  ambassador 
out  of  an  attache. 

"  See  now  if  you  reproached  me  justly  with  scanty  corre- 
spondences. If  I  write  a  line  more,  I  must  begin  a  new  sheet, 
and  that  will  be  beyond  the  power  of  a  frank — a  thing  which 
would,  I  know,  break  the  heart  of  your  dear,  good,  generous, 
but  a  little  too  prudent  aunt,  and  irrevocably  ruin  me  in  her 
esteem.  So  God  bless  you,  dearest  Eleanor,  and  believe  me 
most  affectionately  yours,  Flora  Ardenne." 

LETTER  II, 
FROM    THE   SAME    TO    THE    SAME. 

"Pray,  dearest  Eleanor,  does  that  good  aunt  of  yours — now, 
don't  frown,  I  am  not  going  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  her — 
ever  take  a  liking  to  young  gentlemen  whom  you  detest,  and 
insist  upon  the  fallacy  of  your  opinion,  and  the  unerring  recr 
titude  of  hers?  If  so,  you  can  pity  and  comprehend  my  grief. 
Mamma  has  formed  quite  an  attachment  to  a  very  disagreeable 
person  !  He  is  Lord  Borodaile,  the  eldest,  and,  I  believe,  the 
only  son  of  Lord  Ulswater.  Perhaps  you  may  have  met  him 
abroad,  for  he  has  been  a  great  traveller  ;  his  family  is  among 
the  most  ancient  in  England,  and  his  father's  estate  covers 
half  a  county.  All  this  mamma  tells  me,  with  the  most  earnest 
air  in  the  world,  whenever  I  declaim  upon  his  impertinence  or 
disa^reeability — (is  there  such  a  word  ?   there  ought  to  be). 


THE   DISOWNED.  163 

'Well,'  said  I  to-day,  *  what's  that  to  me  ?'  '  It  may  be  a  great 
deal  to  you,'  replied  mamma  significantly,  and  the  blood  rushed 
from  my  face  to  my  heart.  She  could  not,  Eleanor,  she  could 
not  mean,  after  all  her  kindness  to  Clarence,  and  in  spite  of 
all  her  penetration  into  my  heart — oh,  no,  no — she  could  not. 
How  terribly  suspicious  this  love  makes  one  ! 

"But  if  1  disliked  Lord  Borodaile  at  first,  I  have  hated  him 
of  late ;  for,  somehow  or  other,  he  is  always  in  the  way.  If  I 
see  Clarence  hastening  through  the  crowd  to  ask  me  to  dance, 
at  that  very  instant  up  steps  Lord  Borodaile  with  his  cold, 
changeless  face,  and  his  haughty,  old-fashioned  bow,  and  his 
abominable  dark  complexion — and  mamma  smiles — and  he 
hopes  he  finds  me  disengaged — and  I  am  hurried  off — and  poor 
Clarence  looks  so  disappointed  and  so  wretched  !  You  have  no 
idea  how  ill-tempered  this  makes  me.  I  could  not  help  asking 
Lord  Borodaile,  yesterday,  if  he  was  never  going  abroad  again, 
and  the  hateful  creature  played  with  his  cravat,  and  answered 
'Never  ! '  I  was  in  hopes  that  my  suUenness  would  drive  his 
lordship  away  ;  tout  au  contraire,  '  Nothing,'  said  he  to  me  the 
other  day,  when  he  was  in  full  pout,  '  Nothing  is  so  plebeian 
as  good-humor ! ' 

"  I  wish,  then,  Eleanor,  that  he  could  see  your  governess ; 
she  must  be  majesty  in  his  eyes  !  " 

"  Ah,  dearest,  how  we  belie  ourselves.  At  this  moment, 
when  you  might  think,  from  the  idle,  rattling,  silly  flow  of  my 
letter,  that  my  heart  was  as  light  and  as  free  as  when  we  used 
to  play  on  the  green  lawn,  and  under  the  sunny  trees,  in  the 
merry  days  of  our  childhood,  the  tears  are  running  down  my 
cheeks  ;  see  where  they  have  fallen  on  the  page,  and  my  head 
throbs  as  if  my  thoughts  were  too  dull  and  heavy  for  it  to  con- 
tain.    It  is   past   one !     I  am   alone,  and  in   my  own  room. 

Mamma   is  gon?  to  a  rout  at  H House  ;    but  I  knew  I 

should  not  meet  Clarence  there,  and  so  said  I  was  ill,  and  re- 
mained at  home.  I  have  done  so  often  of  late,  whenever  I 
have  learned  from  htm  that  he  was  not  going  to  the  same  place 
as  mamma.  Indeed,  I  love  much  better  to  sit  alone  and  think 
over  his  words  and  looks  :  and  I  have  drawn,  after  repeated 
attempts,  a  profile  likeness  of  him  ;  and  oh,  Eleanor,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  dear  it  is  to  me  ;  and  yet  there  is  not  a  line,  not  a 
look  of  his  countenance  which  I  have  not  learned  by  heart, 
without  such  useless  aids  to  my  memory.  But  I  am  ashamed 
of  telling  you  all  this,  and  my  eyes  ache  so,  that  I  can  write  no 
more. 

*'  Ever,  as  ever,  dearest  Eleanor,  your  affectionate  friend." 


164  THE    DISOWNED, 

LETTER   III. 
FROM  THE  SAME  TO   THE  SAME. 

"  Eleanor,  I  am  undone  !  My  mother  has  been  so  cruel ; 
but  she  cannot,  she  cannot  intend  it,  or  she  knows  very  little 
of  my  heart.  With  some,  ties  may  be  as  easily  broken  as 
formed  ;  with  others  they  are  twined  around  life  itself. 

"Clarence  dined  with  us  yesterday  and  was  unusually  ani- 
mated and  agreeable.  He  was  engaged  on  business  with  Lord 
Aspeden  afterwards,  and  left  us  early.  We  had  a  few  people 
in  the  evening  ;  Lord  Borodaile  among  the  rest  ;  and  my 
mother  spoke  of  Clarence,  and  his  relationship  to,  and  expecta- 
tions from,  Mr.  Talbot.  Lord  Borodaile  sneered:  '  You  are  mis- 
taken,' said  he,  sarcastically  ;  '  Mr.  Linden  may  feel  it  conven- 
ient to  give  out  that  he  is  related  to  so  old  a  family  as  the  Tal- 
bots ;  and  since  Heaven  only  knows  who  or  what  he  is,  he  may 
as  well  claim  alliance  with  one  person  as  another  ;  but  he  is 
certainly  not  the  nephew  of  Mr.  Talbot  of  Scarsdale  Park,  for 
that  gentleman  had  no  sisters  and  but  one  brother,  who  left 
an  only  daughter;  that  daughter  had  also  but  one  child,  cer- 
tainly no  relation  to  Mr.  Linden.  I  can  vouch  for  the  truth 
of  this  statement ;  for  the  Talbots  are  related  to,  or  at  least 
nearly  connected  with,  myself  ;  and  I  thank  Heaven  that  I 
have  a  pedigree,  even  in  its  collateral  branches,worth  learning  by 
heart.'  And  then  Lord  Borodaile — I  little  though,  when  I 
railed  against  him,  what  serious  cause  I  should  have  to  hate 
him — turned  to  me,  and  harassed  me  with  his  tedious  atten- 
tions the  whole  of  the  evening. 

"  This  morning  mamma  sent  for  me  into  her  boudoir.  *  I 
have  observed,'  said  she,  with  the  greatest  indifference,  *  that 
Mr.  Linden  has,  0/ /afe,  been  much  too  particular  in  manner 
towards  you — your  foolish  and  undue  familiarity  with  every 
one  has  perhaps  given  him  encouragement.  *  After  the  gross 
imposition  which  Lord  Borodaile  exposed  to  us  last  night,  I 
cannot  but  consider  the  young  man  as  a  mere  adventurer,  and 
must  not  only  insist  upon  your  total  termination  to  civilities 
which  we  must  henceforth  consider  presumption,  but  I  myself 
shall  consider  it  incumbent  upon  me  greatly  to  limit  the  ad- 
vances he  has  thought  proper  to  make  towards  my  acquaint- 
ance.' 

"  You  may  guess  how  thunderstruck  I  was  by  this  speech. 
I  could  not  answer  ;  my  tongue  literally  clove  to  my  mouth, 
and  I  was  only  relieved  by  a  sudden  and  violent  burst  of  tears. 
Mamma  looked  exceedingly  displeased,  and  was  just  going  to 


THE  DISOWNED.  165 

speak,  when  the  servant  threw  open  the  door  and  announced 
Mr.  Linden.  I  rose  hastily,  and  had  only  just  time  to  escape, 
as  he  entered  ;  but  when  1  heard  that  dear,  dear  voice,  I  could 
not  resist  turning  for  one  moment.  He  saw  me — and  was 
struck  mute,  for  the  agony  of  my  soul  was  stamped  visibly  on 
my  countenance.  That  moment  was  over — with  a  violent 
effort  I  tore  myself  away. 

"  Eleanor,  I  can  write  no  more.     God  bless  you  !  and  me 
too — for  I  am  very,  very  unhappy.  F.  A." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
"What  a  charming  character  is  a  kind  old    man." — Stephen    Mon« 

TAGUE. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Talbot  kindly,  "  we  must 
never  despair.  What  though  Lady  Westborough  has  forbidden 
you  the  boudoir,  a  boudoir  is  a  very  different  thing  from  a 
daughter,  and  you  have  no  right  to  suppose  that  the  veto  ex- 
tends to  both.  But  now  that  we  are  on  this  subject,  do  let  noe 
reason  with  you  seriously.  Have  you  not  already  tasted  all 
the  pleasures,  and  been  sufficiently  annoyed  by  some  of  the 
pains,  of  acting  the  'Incognito'?  Be  ruled  by  me  ;  resume 
your  proper  name  ;  it  is  at  least  one  which  the  proudest  might 
acknowledge  ;  and  its  discovery  will  remove  the  greatest  obsta- 
cle to  the  success  you  so  ardently  desire." 

Clarence,  who  was  laboring  under  strong  excitement,  paused 
for  some  moments,  as  if  to  collect  himself,  before  he  replied  : 
"  I  have  been  thrust  from  my  father's  home — I  have  been 
made  the  victim  of  another's  crime — I  have  been  denied  the 
rights  and  name  of  son  ;  perhaps — (and  I  say  this  bitterly) 
justly  denied  them,  despite  my  own  innocence.  What  would 
you  have  me  do  ?  Resume  a  name  never  conceded  to  me — 
perhaps  not  righteously  mine — thrust  myself  upon  the  unwill- 
ing and  shrinking  hands  which  disowned  and  rejected  me — 
blazon  my  virtues  by  pretensions  which  I  myself  have  prom- 
ised to  forego,  and  foist  myself  on  the  notice  of  strangers  by 
the  very  claims  which  my  nearest  relations  dispute  ?  Never — 
never — never  !  With  the  simple  name  I  have  assumed — the 
friend  I  myself  have  won — you,  my  generous  benefactor,  my 
real  father,  who  never  forsook,  nor  insulted,  me  for  my  mis- 
fortunes— with  these,  I  have  gained  some  steps  in  the  ladder  ; 
with  these,  and  those  gifts  of  nature,  a  stout  heart  and  a  will* 


j66  THE  DISOWNED. 

ing  hand,  of  which  none  can  rob  me,  I  will  either  ascend  the 
rest,  even  to  the  summit,  or  fall  to  the  dust,  unknown,  but  nof 
contemned  ;  unlaniented,  but  not  despised." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Talbot,  brushing  away  a  tear  which  he 
could  not  deny  to  the  feeling,  even  while  he  disputed  the  judg- 
ment, of  the  young  adventurer — "well,  this  is  all  very  fine  and 
very  foolish  ;  but  you  shall  never  want  friend  or  father  while  \ 
I  live,  or  when  I  have  ceased  to  live  ;  but  come — sit  down,  ' 
share  my  dinner,  which  is  not  very  good,  and  my  dessert,  which 
is  :  help  me  to  entertain  two  or  three  guests  who  are  coming 
to  me  in  the  evening,  to  talk  on  literature,  sup,  and  sleep  ;  and 
to-morrow  you  shall  return  home,  and  see  Lady  Flora  in  the 
drawing-room,  if  you  cannot  in  the  boudoi)-." 

And  Clarence  was  easily  persuaded  to  accept  the  invitation. 

Talbot  was  not  one  of  those  men  who  are  forced  to  exert 
themselves  to  be  entertaining.  He  had  the  pleasant  and  easy 
way  of  imparting  his  great  general  and  curious  information, 
that  a  man,  partly  humorist,  partly  philosopher,  who  values 
himself  on  being  a  man  of  letters,  and  is  in  spite  of  himself  a 
man  of  the  world,  always  ought  to  possess.  Clarence  was 
soon  beguiled  from  the  remembrance  of  his  mortifications, 
and,  by  little  and  little,  entirely  yielded  to  the  airy  and  happy 
flow  of  Talbot's  conversation. 

In  the  evening  three  or  four  men  of  literary  eminence  (as 
many  as  Talbot's  small  Tusculum  would  accommodate  with 
beds)  arrived,  and  in  a  conversation,  free  alike  from  the  jargon 
of  pedants  and  the  insipidities  of  fashion,  the  night  fled  away 
swiftly  and  happily,  even  to  the  lover. 


CHAPTER  XXXVHI. 

'  ■  We  are  here  (in  the  country)  among  the  vast  and  noble  scenes  of  nature  ; 
\ve  are  there  (in  the  town)  among  the  pitiful  shifts  of  policy.  We  walk  here 
in  the  light  and  open  ways  of  tha  divine  bounty — we  grope  there  in  the  dark 
and  confused  labyrinths  of  human  malice  ;  our  senses  are  here  feasted  with 
all  the  clear  and  genuine  taste  of  their  objects,  whch  are  ail  sophisticated 
there,  and  for  the  most  part  overwhelmed  wiih  their  contraries  :  here 
pleasure,  methinks,  looks  like  a  beautiful,  cons'ar;t,  aid  modest  wife  :  it  is 
there  an  impudent,  fickle,  and  painted  liarh  t." — Cowi.EY. 

Draw  up  the  curtain  !     The  scene  is  the  Opera. 

The  pit  is  crowded  ;  the  connoisseurs  in  the  front  row  are 
in  a  very  ill-humor.  It  must  be  confessed  that  extreme  heat  is 
a  little  trying  to  tlie  temper  of  a  critic. 

The  Opera  then  was  not  what  it  is  now,  nor  even  what  it  had 


THE    DISOWNED.  167 

been  in  a  former  time.  It  is  somewhat  amusing  to  find  Gold- 
smith questioning,  in  one  of  his  essays,  whether  the  Opera 
could  ever  become  popular  in  England  ?  But  on  the  night  on 
which  the  reader  is  summoned  to  that  "  theatre  of  sweet 
sounds,"  a  celebrated  singer  from  the  continent  made  his  first 
appearance  in  London,  and  all  the  world  thronged  to  "that 
odious  Opera-house,"  to  hear  or  to  say  they  had  heard  the 
famous  Sopranicllo. 

With  a  nervous  step,  Clarence  proceeded  to  Lady  West- 
borough's  box  ;  and  it  was.  many  minutes  that  he  lingered 
by  the  door  before  he  summoned  courage  to  obtain  ad- 
mission. 

He  entered  ;  the  box  was  crowded  ;  but  Lady  Flora  was  not 
there.  Lord  Borodaile  was  sitting  next  to  Lady  Westborough. 
As  Clarence  entered,  Lord  Borodaile  raised  his  eyebrows,  and 
Lady  Westborough  her  glass.  However  disposed  a  great 
person  may  be  to  drop  a  lesser  one,  no  one  of  real  birth  or 
breeding  ever  cuts  another.  Lady  Westborough,  therefore, 
though  much  colder,  was  no  less  civil  than  usual  ;  and  Lord 
Borodaile  bowed  lower  than  ever  to  Mr.  Linden,  as  he  punctil- 
iously called  him.  But  Clarence's  quick  eye  discovered 
instantly  that  he  was  no  welcome  intruder,  and  that  his  day 
with  the  beautiful  marchioness  was  over.  His  visit,  conse- 
quently, was  short  and  embarrassed.  When  he  left  the  box,  he 
heard  Lord  Borodaile's  short,  slow,  sneering  laugh,  followed 
by  Lady  Westborough's  "  hush"  of  reproof. 

His  blood  boiled.  He  hurried  along  the  passage,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  his  hand  clenched. 

"What  ho  !  Linden,  my  good  fellow  ;  why,  you  look  as  if  all 
the  ferocity  of  the  great  Figg  were  in  your  veins,"  cried  a 
good-humored  voice.  Clarence  started,  and  saw  the  young 
and  high-spirited  Duke  of  Haverfield. 

"Are  you  going  behind  the  scenes? "  said  his ^race.  "I 
have  just  come  thence ;  and  you  had  much  better  drop 
into  La  Meronville's  box  with  me.  You  sup  with  her  to-night, 
do  you  not  ?" 

"No,  indeed!"  replied  Ciareiice, ;.,"  I  scarcely  know  her, 
except  by  sight."  .    *:.,       J,'.    ^  .     -/f 

"Well,  and  what  think'youot  iier?'^  ' 

"  That  she  is  the  prettiest  Frenchwoman  I  ever  saw." 

"Commend  me  to  secret  sympathies! "  cried  the  duke.  "  She 
has  asked  me  three  times  who  you  were,  and  told  me  three 
times  that  you  were  the  handsomest  man  in  Lornlon,  and  had 
quite  a  foreign  air  ;  the  latter  recommendation  bcinj  of  course 


l68  THE   DISOWNED. 

far  greater  than  the  former.  So,  after  this,  you  cannot  refuse 
to  accompany  me  to  her  box,  and  make  her  acquaintance." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Clarence,  "  1  shall  be  too  happy  to  profit 
by  the  taste  of  so  discerning  a  person:  but  it  is  cruel  in  you, 
duke,  not  to  feign  a  little  jealousy — a  little  reluctance  to  intro- 
duce so  formidable  a  rival." 

"Oh,  as  to  me,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  only  like  her  for  her  men- 
tal, not  her  personal  attractions.  She  is  very  agreeable,  and  a 
little  witty  ;  sufficient  attractions  for  one  in  her  situation." 

'"But  do  tell  me  a  little  of  her  history,"  said  Clarence  ;  "foi^ 
in  spite  of  her  renown,  I  only  know  her  as  La  Belle  Meronville. 
Is  she  not  living  en  ami  with  some  one  of  our  acquaintance?" 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  the  duke,  "  with  Lord  Borodaile.  She 
is  prodigiously  extravagant ;  and  Borodaile  affects  to  be  pro- 
digiously fond ;  but  as  there  is  only  a  certain  fund  of  affection 
in  the  human  heart,  and  all  in  Lord  Borodaile's  is  centered  in 
Lord  Borodaile,  that  cannot  really  be  the  case." 

"  Is  he  jealous  of  her  ? "  said  Clarence. 

"Not  in  the  least!  nor,  indeed,  does  she  give  him  any  cause. 
She  is  very  gay,  very  talkative,  gives  excellent  suppers,  and  always 
has  her  box  at  the  Opera  crowded  with  admirers ;  but  that  is 
all.  She  encourages  many,  and  favors  but  one.  Happy  Boro- 
daile !  My  lot  is  less  fortunate  !  You  know,  1  suppose,  that 
Julia  has  deserted  me  ?  " 

"You  astonish  me — and  for  what  ?" 

"Oh,  she  told  me,  with  a  vehement  burst  of  tears,  that  she 
was  convinced  I  did  not  love  her,  and  that  a  hundred  pounds 
a  month  was  not  sufficient  to  maintain  a  milliner's  apprentice. 
I  answered  the  first  assertion  by  an  assurance  that  I  adored 
her  ;  but  I  preserved  a  total  silence  with  regard  to  the  latter: 
and  so  I  found  Trevanion  tete-d,-tete  with  her  the  next  day." 

"  What  did  you  ? "  said  Clarence. 

"  Sent  my  valet  to  Trevanion  with  an  old  coat  of  mine,  my 
compliments,  and  my  hopes  that,  as  Mr.  Trevanion  was  so  fond 
of  my  cast-off  conveniences,  he  would  honor  me  by  accepting 
the  accompanying  trifle." 

"  He  challanged  you,  without  doubt  ? " 

"  Challenged  me !  No  :  he  tells  all  his  friends  that  I  am 
the  wittiest  man  in  Europe." 

"  A  fool  can  speak  the  truth,  you  see,"  said  Clarence,  laughing. 

"Thank  you,  Linden;  you  shall  have  my  good  word  with 
La  Meronville  for  that  ;  mais  allons." 

Mademoiselle  de  la  Meronville,  as  she  pointedly  entitled  her- 
self, was  one  of  those  charming  adventuresses,  who,  making  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  169 

most  of  a  good  education  and  a  prepossessing  person,  a  delicate 
turn  for  letter-writing,  and  a  lively  vein  of  conversation,  come 
to  England  for  a  year  or  two,  as  Spaniards  were  wont  to  go  to 
Mexico,  and  who  return  to  their  native  country  with  a  pro* 
found  contempt  for  the  barbarians  whom  they  have  so  egre- 
giously  despoiled.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Meronville  was  small, 
beautifully  formed,  had  the  prettiest  hands  and  feet  in  the 
world,  and  laughed  musically,  By-the-by,  how  difficult  it  is  to 
laugh,  or  even  to  smile,  at  once,  naturally  and  gracefully.  It 
is  one  of  Steele's  finest  touches  of  character,  where  he  says  of 
Will  Honeycomb,  "  He  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and 
laughs  easily." 

In  a  word,  the  pretty  Frenchwoman  was  precisely  formed  to 
turn  the  head  of  a  man  like  Lord  Borodaile,  who  loved  to  be 
courted  and  who  required  to  be  amused.  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Meronville  received  Clarence  with  a  great  deal  of  grace,  and  a 
little  reserve,  the  first  chiefly  natural,  the  last  wholly  artificial, 

"Well,"  said  the  duke  (in  French),  "  you  have  not  told  me 
who  are  to  be  of  your  party  this  evening — Borodaile,  I  suppose, 
of  course  ?  " 

"  No,  he  cannot  come  to-night." 

"  Ah,  quel  malheur!  then  the  hock  will  not  be  iced  enough — 
Borodaile's  looks  are  the  best  wine-coolers  in  the  world." 

"  Fie  !  "  cried  La  Meronville,  glancing  towards  Clarence :  "I 
cannot  endure  your  malevolence  ;  wit  makes  you  very  bitter." 

"  And  that  is  exactly  the  reason  why  la  belle  Meronville  loves 
me  so:  nothing  is  so  sweet  to  one  person  as  bitterness  upon 
another  ;  it  is  human  nature  and  French  nature  (which  is  a 
very  different  thing)  into  the  bargain." 

"  Bah!  my  lord  duke,  you  judge  of  others  by  yourself." 

"To  be  sure  I  do,"  cried  the  duke  ;  "and  that  is  the  best 
way  of  forming  a  right  judgment.  Ah  !  what  a  foot  that  little 
figurante  has — you  don't  admire  her.  Linden?" 

**  No,  duke ;  my  admiration  is  like  the  bird  in  the  cage — 
chained  here,  and  cannot  fly  away  ! "  answered  Clarence,  with 
a  smile  at  the  frippery  of  his  compliment. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  cried  the  pretty  Frenchwoman,  leaning 
back,  "  you  have  been  at  Paris,  I  see — one  does  not  learn  those 
graces  of  language  in  England.  I  have  been  five  months  in 
your  country — brought  over  the  prettiest  dresses  imaginable, 
and  have  only  received  three  compliments,  and  (pity  me!)  two  out 
of  the  three  were  upon  my  pronunciation  of  *  How  do  you  do  ? '" 

"  Well,"  said  Clarence,  "  I  should  have  imagined  that  in  Eng- 
land, above  all  other  countries,  your  vanity  would  have  been 


170  THE    DISOWNED, 

gratified,  for  you  know  we  pique  Ourselves  On  our  sincerity, 
and  say  all  we  think." 

"  Yes!  then  you  always  think  very  unpleasantly  ;  what  an  al- 
ternative !  which  is  the  best,  to  speak  ill,  or  to  think  ill  of  one  ?  " 

^^ Pour  r amour  de  Dieu!"  cried  the  duke,  ''don't  ask  such 
puzzling  questions  ;  you  are  always  getting  into  those  moral 
subtleties,  which  I  suppose  )'ou  learn  from  Borodaile.  He  is 
a  wonderful  metaphysician,  I  hear — I  can  answer  for  his  chem- 
ical powers  ;  the  moment  he  enters  a  room  the  very  walls  grow 
damp :  as  for  me,  I  dissolve  ;  I  should  flow  into  a  foun- 
tain, like  Arethusa,  if  happily  his  lordship  did  not  freeze  one 
again  into  substance  as  fast  as  he  dampens  one  into  thaw." 

"  Fi  done !"  cried  La  Meronville.  "  I  should  be  very  angry, 
had  you  not  taught  me  to  be  very  indifferent  —  " 

"  To  him  !  "  said  the  duke  drily.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 
He  is  not  worth  une  grande  passion,  believe  me — but  tell  me, 
ma  belle,  who  else  sups  with  you  ?" 

" /?'a^^/-^,  Monsieur  Linden,  I  trust,"  answered  Meronville, 
with  a  look  of  invitation,  to  which  Clarence  bowed  and  smiled 
his  assent,  "Milord  D ,  and  Mons.  Trevanion,  Mademoi- 
selle Caumartin,  and  Le  Prince  Pietro  del  Ordino." 

"  Nothing  can  be  better  arranged,"  said  the  duke.  "  But  see, 
they  are  just  going  to  drop  the  curtain.  Let  me  call  your  car- 
riage." 

"You  are  too  good,  milord,"  replied  La  Meronville,  with  a 
bow,  which  said,  "of  course";  and  the  duke,  who  would  not 
have  stirred  three  paces  for  the  first  princess  of  the  blood,  hur- 
ried out  of  the  box  (despite  of  Clarence's  offer  to  undertake 
the  commission)  to  inquire  after  the  carriage  of  the  most  no- 
torious adventuress  of  the  day. 

Clarence  was  alone  in  the  box  with  the  beautiful  French- 
woman. To  say  truth.  Linden  was  far  too  much  in  love  with 
Lady  Flora,  and  too  occupied,  as  to  his  other  thoughts,  with 
the  projects  of  ambition  to  be  easily  led  into  any  disreputable 
or  criminal  liaison  ;  he  therefore  conversed  with  his  usual  ease, 
though  with  rather  more  than  his  usual  gallantry,  without  feeling 
the  least  touched  by  the  charms  of  La  Meronville,  or  the  least 
desirous  of  supplanting  Lord  Borodaile  in  her  favor. 

The  duke  reappeared,  and  announced  the  carriage.  As,  with 
La  Meronville  leaning  on  his  arm,  Clarence  hurried  out,  he  ac- 
cidentally looked  up,  and  saw  on  the  head  of  the  stairs  Lady 
Westborough  with  her  party  (Lord  Borodaile  among  the  rest), 
in  waiting  for  her  carriage.  For  almost  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  Clarence  felt  ashamed  of  himself;  his  cheek  burned  like; 


THE    DISOWNED,  lyy 

fire,  and  he  involuntarily  let  go  the  fair  hand  which  was  lean* 
ing  upon  his  arm.  However,  the  weaker  our  cause  the  better 
face  we  sliould  put  upon  it,  and  Clarence,  recovering  his  pres- 
ence of  mind,  and  vainly  hoping  he  had  not  been  perceived, 
buried  his  face  as  well  as  he  was  able  in  the  fur  collar  of  his 
cloak,  and  hurried  on. 

"You  saw  Lord  Borodaile?"  said  theduke  toLaMeronville, 
as  he  handed  her  into  her  carriage. 

"Yes,  I  accidentally  looked  back  after  we  had  passed  him, 
and  then  I  saw  him." 

"  Looked  back?"  said  the  duke  ;  I  wonder  he  did  not  turn 
you  into  a  pillar  of  salt." 

^^ Fi  done!"  cried  La  Belle  Meronville,  tapping  his  grace 
playfully  on  the  arm,  in  order  to  do  which  she  was  forced  to  lean 
a  little  harder  upon  Clarence's,  which  she  had  not  yet  relin- 
quished— " Fi  done ! — Francois,  ehez  mot!  " 

"  My  carriage  is  just  behind,"  said  the  duke.  "  You  will  go 
with  me  to  La  Meronville's,  of  course." 

"  Really,  ray  dear  duke,"  said  Clarence,  "I  wish  I  could  ex- 
cuse myself  from  this  party.     I  have  another  engagement." 

"  Excuse  yourself  ?  and  leave  me  to  the  mercy  of  Mademoi- 
selle Caumartin,  who  has  the  face  of  an  ostrich,  and  talks  me 
out  of  breath  !  Never,  my  dear  Linden,  never  !  Besides,  I 
want  you  to  see  how  well  I  shall  behave  to  Trevanion.  Here 
is  the  carriage.     Entrez,  mon  cher." 

And  Clarence,  weakly  and  foolishly  (but  he  was  very  young 
and  very  unhappy,  and  so,  longing  for  an  escape  from  his  own 
thoughts),  entered  the  carriage,  and  drove  to  the  supper  party, 
in  order  to  prevent  the  Duke  of  Haverfield  being  talked  out  of 
breath  by  Mademoiselle  Caumartin,  who  had  the  face  of  an 
ostrich. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"  Yet  truth  is  keenly  sought  for,  and  the  wind, 
Charged  with  rich  words,  pour'd  out  in  thought's  defence  ; 
Whether  the  church  inspire  that  eloquence, 
Or  a  Platonic  piety,  confined 
To  the  sole  temple  of  the  inward  mind  ; 
And  one  there  is  who  builds  immortal  lays. 
Though  doom':!  to  tread  in  solitary  ways  ; 
Darkness  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind  I 
Yet  not  alone — " — Wordsworth. 

London — thou  Niobe,  who  sittest  in  stone,  amidst  thy  stricken 
and  fated  children ;  nurse  of  the  desolate,  who  hidest  in  thy 


1^2  THE    DISOWNED. 

bosom  the  shame,  the  sorrows,  the  sins  of  many  sons  ;  in  whose 
arms  the  fallen  and  the  outcast  shroud  their  distresses,  and 
shelter  from  the  proud  man's  contumely  ;  Epitome  and  Focus 
of  the  disparities  and  maddening  contrasts  of  this  wrong  world, 
that  assemblest  together  in  one  great  heap  the  woes,  the  joys, 
the  elevations,  the  debasements  of  the  various  tribes  of  man  ; 
mightiest  of  levellers,  confounding  in  thy  whirlpool  all  ranks, 
all  minds,  the  graven  labors  of  knowledge,  the  straws  of  the 
maniac,  purple  and  rags,  the  regalities  and  the  loathsomeness 
of  earth — palace  and  lazar-house  combined  !  Grave  of  the  liv- 
ing, where,  mingled  and  massed  together,  we  couch,  but  rest 
not — "for  in  that  sleep  of  lifev^X'xdX  dreams  do  come" — each 
vexed  with  a  separate  vision — "shadows  "  which  "grieve  the 
heart,"  unreal  in  their  substance,  but  faithful  in  their  warnings, 
flitting  from  the  eye,  but  graving  unfleeting  memories  on  the 
mind,  which  reproduce  new  dreams  over  and  over,  until  the 
phantasm  ceases,  and  the  pall  of  a  heavier  torpor  falls  upon  the 
brain,  and  all  is  still,  and  dark,  and  hushed ! — "  From  the  stir 
of  thy  great  Babel,"  and  the  fixed  tinsel  glare  in  which  sits 
Pleasure  like  a  star,  "  which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its, 
powerless  rays,"  we  turn  to  thy  deeper  and  more  secret  haunts. 
Thy  wilderness  is  all  before  us — where  to  choose  our  place  of 
rest  ;  and,  to  our  eyes,  thy  hidden  recesses  are  revealed. 

The  clock  of  St.  Paul's  had  tolled  the  second  hour  of 
morning.  Within  a  small  and  humble  apartment  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  city,  there  sat  a  writer,  whose  lucubrations,  then 
obscure  and  unknown,  were  destined,  years  afterwards,  to  ex- 
cite the  vague  admiration  of  the  crowd,  and  the  deeper  homage 
of  the  wise.  They  were  of  that  nature  which  is  slow  in  win- 
ning its  way  to  popular  esteem  ;  the  result  of  the  hived  and 
hoarded  knowledge  of  years — the  produce  of  deep  thought  and. 
sublime  aspirations,  influencing,  in  its  bearings,  the  interests  of 
the  many,  yet  only  capable  of  analysis  by  the  judgment  of  the 
few.  But  the  stream  broke  forth  at  last  from  the  cavern  to  the 
daylight,  although  the  source  was  never  traced  ;  or,  to  change 
the  image — albeit  none  know  the  hand  which  executed,  and  the 
head  which  designed — the  monument  of  a  mighty  intellect  has 
been  at  length  dug  up,  as  it  were,  from  the  envious  earth,  the 
brighter  for  its  past  obscurity,  and  the  more  certain  of  immor- 
tality from  the  temporary  neglect  it  has  sustained. 

The  room  was,  as  we  before  said,  very  small  and  meanly  fur- 
nished ;  yet  were  there  a  few  articles  of  costliness  and  luxury 
scattered  about,  which  told  that  the  tastes  of  its  owner  had  not 
been  quite  humbled  to  the  level  of  his  fgrtunes,     One  side  of 


THE   DISOWNED. 


»73 


the  narrow  chamber  was  covered  with  shelves,  which  supported 
books,  in  various  languages  ;  and,  though  chiefly  on  scientific 
subjects,  not  utterly  confined  to  them.  Among  the  doctrines 
of  the  philosopher,  and  the  golden  rules  of  the  moralist,  were 
also  seen  the  pleasant  dreams  of  poets,  the  legends  of  Spenser, 
the  refining  moralities  of  Pope,  the  lofty  errors  of  Lucretius, 
and  the  sublime  relics  of  our  "  dead  kings  of  melody."  *  And 
over  the  hearth  was  a  picture,  taken  in  more  prosperous  days, 
of  one  who  had  been,  and  was  yet,  to  the  tenant  of  that  abode, 
better  than  fretted  roofs,  and  glittering  banquets,  the  objects  of 
ambition,  or  even  the  immortality  of  fame.  It  was  the  face  of 
one  very  young  and  beautiful,  and  the  deep,  tender  eyes  looked 
down,  as  with  a  watchful  fondness,  upon  the  lucubrator  and  his 
labors.  While  beneath  the  window,  which  was  left  unclosed, 
for  it  was  scarcely  June,  were  simple,  yet  not  inelegant,  vases, 
filled  with  flowers  ; 

"  Those  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave."  f 

The  writer  was  alone,  and  had  just  paused  from  his  employ- 
ment :  he  was  leaning  his  face  upon  one  hand,  in  thoughtful 
and  earnest  mood,  and  the  air  which  came  chill,  but  gentle, 
from  the  window,  slightly  stirred  the  locks  from  the  broad  and 
marked  brow,  over  which  they  fell  in  thin  but  graceful  waves. 
Partly  owing  perhaps  to  the  waning  light  of  the  single  lamp, 
and  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  his  cheek  seemed  very  pale,  and 
the  Complete,  though  contemplative,  rest  of  the  features  par- 
took greatly  of  the  quiet  of  habitual  sadness,  and  a  little  of  the 
languor  of  shaken  health  :  yet  the  expression,  despite  the  proud 
cast  of  the  brow  and  profile,  was  rather  benevolent  than  stern 
or  dark  in  its  pensiveness,  and  the  lines  spoke  more  of  the  wear 
and  harrow  of  deep  thought,  than  the  inroads  of  ill-regulated 
passion. 

There  was  a  slight  tap  at  the  door, — the  latch  was  raised,  and 
the  original  of  the  picture  I  have  described  entered  the  apart- 
ment. 

Time  had  not  been  idle  with  her  since  that  portrait  had  been 
taken  :  the  round,  elastic  figure  had  lost  much  of  its  youth  and 
freshness  ;  the  step,  though  light,  was  languid,  and  in  the  centre 
of  the  fair,  smooth  cheek,  which  was  a  little  sunken,  burned 
one  deep,  bright  spot — fatal  sign  to  those  who  have  watched 
the  progress  of  the  most  deadly  and  deceitful  of  our  national 

♦  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  t  Herrick. 


174  THE    DISOWNED. 

maladies ;  yet  still  the  form  and  countenance  were  eminently 
interesting  and  lovely ;  and  though  the  bloom  was  gone  for 
ever,  the  beauty,  which  not  even  death  could  wholly  have  de- 
spoiled, remained  to  triumph  over  debility,  misfortune,  and 
disease. 

She  approached  the  student,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder — 

"  Dearest ! "  said  he  tenderly  yet  reproachfully,  "  yet  up, 
and  the  hour  so  late,  and  yourself  so  weak  ?  Fie,  I  must  learn 
to  scold  you." 

"And  how,"  answered  the  intruder,  "how  could  I  sleep  or 
rest  while  you  are  consuming  your  very  life  in  those  thankless 
labors  ?" 

"  By  which,"  interrupted  the  writer,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  we 
glean  our  scanty  subsistence." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  wife  (for  she  held  that  relation  to  the 
student),  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  "  I  know  well  that 
every  morsel  of  bread,  every  drop  of  water,  is  wrung  from  your 
very  heart's  blood,  and  I — I  am  the  cause  of  all  ;  but  surely 
you  exert  yourself  too  much,  more  than  can  be  requisite.  These 
night  damps,  this  sickly  and  chilling  air,  heavy  with  the  rank 
vapors  of  the  coming  morning,  are  not  suited  to  thoughts  and 
toils  which  are  alone  sufficient  to  sear  your  mind  and  exhaust 
your  strength.  Come,  my  own  love,  to  bed :  and  yet,  first, 
come  and  look  upon  our  child,  how  sound  she  sleeps  !  I  have 
leant  over  her  for  the  last  hour,  and  tried  to  fancy  it  was  you 
whom  I  watched,  for  she  has  learned  already  your  smile,  and 
has  it  even  when  she  sleeps." 

"  She  has  cause  to  smile,"  said  the  husband,  bitterly. 

"  She  hsis, /or  she  is  yours  !  and  even  in  poverty  and  humble 
hopes,  that  is  an  inheritance  which  may  well  teach  her  pride 
and  joy.  Come,  love,  the  air  is  keen,  and  the  damp  rises  to 
your  forehead — yet  stay,  till  I  have  kissed  it  away." 

"  Mine  Own  love,"  said  the  student,  as  he  rose  and  wound  his 
arm  around  the  slender  waist  of  his  wife,  "wrap  your  shawl 
closer  over  your  bosom,  and  let  us  look  for  one  instant  upon 
the  night.  I  cannot  sleep  till  I  have  slaked  the  fever  of  my 
blood :  the  air  has  nothing  of  coldness  in  its  breath  to 
me." 

And  they  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  forth.  All  was 
hushed  and  still,  in  the  narrow  street ;  the  cold  gray  clouds 
were  hurrying  fast  along  the  sky,  and  the  stars,  weak  and  wan- 
ing intlieir  light,  gleamed  forth  at  rare  intervals  upon  the  mute 
city,  like  the  expiring  watch-lamps  of  the  dead. 


THE  DISOWNED.  tf$ 

They  leaned  out,  and  spoke  not ;  but  when  they  looked 
above  upon  the  melancholy  heavens,  they  drew  nearer  to  each 
other,  as  if  it  were  their  natural  instinct  to  do  so,  whenever  the 
world  without  seemed  discouraging  and  sad. 

At  length  the  student  broke  the  silence  ;  but  his  thoughts, 
which  w-ere  wandering  and  disjointed,  were  breathed  less  to  her 
than  vaguely  and  unconsciously  to  himself.  "  Morn  breaks — 
another  and  another  ! — day  upon  day  ! — while  we  drag  on  our 
load  like  the  blind  beast  which  knows  not  when  the  burden 
shall  be  cast  off,  and  the  hour  of  rest  be  come." 

The  woman  pressed  his  hand  to  her  bosom,  but  made  no 
rejoinder — she  knew  his  mood — and  the  student  continued: 

"  And  so  life  frets  itself  away  !  Four  years  have  passed  over 
our  seclusion — four  years  !  a  great  segment  in  the  little  circle 
of  our  mortality  ;  and  of  those  years  what  day  has  pleasure  won 
from  labor,  or  what  night  has  sleep  snatched  wholly  from  the 
lamp  ?  Weaker  than  the  miser,  the  insatiable  and  restless  mind 
traverses  from  east  to  west ;  and  from  the  nooks,  and  corners, 
and  crevices  of  earth  collects,  fragment  by  fragment,  grain  by 
grain,  atom  by  atom,  the  riches  which  it  gathers  to  its  coffers — • 
for  what  ? — to  starve  amidst  the  plenty  !  The  fantasies  of  the 
imagination  bring  a  ready  and  substantial  return  :  not  so  the 
treasures  of  thought.  Better  that  I  had  renounced  the  soul's 
labor  for  that  of  its  hardier  frame — better  that  I  had  '  sweated 
in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,'  than  'eat  my  heart  with  crosses  and  with 
cares,' — seeking  truth  and  wanting  bread — adding  to  the  in- 
digence of  poverty  its  humiliation  ;  wroth  with  the  arrogance 
of  men,  who  weigh  in  the  shallow  scales  of  their  meagre  knowl- 
edge the  product  of  lavish  thought,  and  of  the  hard  hours  for 
which  health,  and  sleep,  and  spirit  have  been  exchanged  ; 
sharing  the  lot  of  those  who  would  enchant  the  old  serpent  of 
evil,  which  refuses  the  voice  of  the  charmer;  struggling  against 
the  prejudice  and  bigoted  delusion  of  the  bandaged  and 
fettered  herd  to  whom,  in  our  fond  hopes  and  aspirations,  we 
trusted  to  give  light  and  freedom  ;  seeing  the  slavish  judgments 
we  would  have  redeemed  from  error  clashing  their  chains  at  us 
in  ire  ;  made  criminal  by  our  very  benevolence — the  martyrs 
whose  zeal  is  rewarded  with  persecution,  whose  prophecies  are 
crowned  with  contempt !  Better,  oh,  better  that  I  had  not 
listened  to  the  vanity  of  a  heated  brain— better  that  I  had 
made  my  home  with  the  lark  and  the  wild  bee,  among  the  fields 
and  the  quiet  hills,  where  life,  if  obscurer,  is  less  debased,  and 
hope,  if  less  eagerly  indulged,  is  less  bitterly  disappomted. 
The  frame,  it  is  true,  might  have  been  bowed  to  a  harsher 


i-jS  THE   DISOWNED. 

labor,  but  the  heart  would  at  least  have  had  its  rest  from 
anxiety,  and  the  mind  its  relaxation  from  thought." 

The  wife's  tears  fell  upon  the  hand  she  clasped.  The  stu- 
dent turned,  and  his  heart  smote  him  for  the  selfishness  of  his 
complaints.  He  drew  her  closer  and  closer  to  his  bosom  ;  and, 
gazing  fondly  upon  those  eyes  which  years  of  indigence  and  care 
might  have  robbed  of  their  young  lustre,  but  not  of  their  undy- 
ing tenderness,  he  kissed  away  her  tears,  and  addressed  her  in  a 
voice  which  never  failed  to  charm  her  grief  into  forgetfulness. 

"  Dearest  and  kindest,"  he  said,  "  was  I  not  to  blame  for 
accusing  those  privations  or  regrets  which  have  only  made  us 
love  each  other  the  more  !  Trust  me,  mine  own  treasure,  that 
it  is  only  in  the  peevishness  of  an  inconstant  and  fretful  humor, 
that  I  have  murmured  against  my  fortune.  For  in  the  midst 
of  all,  I  look  upon  you,  my  angel,  my  comforter,  my  young 
dream  of  love  which  God,  in  his  mercy,  breathed  into  waking 
life — I  look  upon  you,  and  am  blest  and  grateful.  Nor  in  my 
juster  moments  do  I  accuse  even  the  nature  of  these  studies, 
though  they  bring  us  so  scanty  a  reward.  Have  I  not  hours  of 
secret  and  overflowing  delight,  the  triumphs  of  gratified 
research — flashes  of  sudden  light,  which  reward  the  darkness 
of  thought,  and  light  up  my  solitude  as  a  revel  ?  These  feel- 
ings of  rapture,  which  nought  but  Science  can  afford,  amply 
repay  her  disciples  for  worse  evils  and  severer  hardships  than 
it  has  been  my  destiny  to  endure.  Look  along  the  sky,  how 
the  vapors  struggle  with  the  still  yet  feeble  stars :  even  so  have 
the  mists  of  error  been  pierced,  though  not  scattered,  by  the 
dim  but  holy  lights  of  past  wisdom,  and  now  the  morning  is  at 
hand,  and  in  that  hope  we  journey  on,  doubtful,  but  not  utterly 
in  darkness.  Nor  is  this  <///  my  hope  ;  there  t's  a  loftier  and 
more  steady  comfort  than  that  which  mere  philosophy  can  be- 
stow. If  the  certainty  of  future  fame  bore  Milton  rejoicing 
through  his  blindness,  or  cheered  Galileo  in  his  dungeon,  what 
stronger  and  holier  support  shall  not  be  given  to  /am  who  has 
loved  mankind  as  his  brothers,  and  devoted  his  labors  to  their 
cause  ? — who  has  not  sought,  but  relinquished,  his  own  re- 
nown ? — who  has  braved  the  present  censures  of  men  for  their 
future  benefit,  and  trampled  upon  glory  in  tiie  energy  of  benev- 
olence? Will  there  not  be  for  him  something  more  powerful 
than  fame  to  comfort  his  sufferings  and  to  sustain  his  hopes  ? 
]f  the  wish  of  mere  posthumous  honor  be  a  feeling  rather  vain 
than  exalted,  the  love  of  our  race  affords  us  a  more  rational 
and  noble  desire  of  remembrance.  Come  what  will,  that  love, 
if  it  animates  our  toils  and  directs  our  studies,  shall,  when  we 


THE   DISOWNED.  tfy 

are  dust,  make  our  relics  of  value,  our  efforts  of  avail,  and  con- 
secrate the  desire  of  fame,  which  were  else  a  passion  selfish  and 
impure,  by  connecting  it  with  the  welfare  of  ages,  and  the  eter- 
nal interests  of  the  world  and  its  Creator ! — Come,  we  will  to 
bed." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"  A  man  may  be  formed  by  nature  for  an  admirable  citizen,  and  yet,  from 
the  purest  motives,  be  a  dangerous  one  to  the  State  in  which  the  accident  of 
birth  has  placed  him." — Stephen  Montague. 

The  night  again  closed,  and  the  student  once  more  resumed 
his  labors.  The  spirit  of  his  hope  and  comforter  of  his  toils 
sat  by  him,  ever  and  anon  lifting  her  fond  eyes  from  her  work 
to  gaze  upon  his  countenance,  to  sigh,  and  to  return  sadly  and 
quietly  to  her  employment. 

A  heavy  step  ascended  the  stairs,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
tall  figure  of  Wolfe,  the  republican,  presented  itself.  The 
female  rose,  pushed  a  chair  towards  him  with  a  smile  and  grace 
suited  to  better  fortunes,  and,  retiring  from  the  table,  reseated 
herself  silent  and  apart. 

"  It  is  a  fine  night,"  said  the  student,  when  the  mutual  greet- 
ings were  over.     "Whence  come  you  ?  " 

"From  contemplating  human  misery  and  worse  than  human 
degradation,"  replied  Wolfe,  slowly  seating  himself. 

"  Those  words  specify  no  place — they  apply  universally,** 
said  the  student,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Ay,  Glendower,  for  misgovernment  is  universal,"  rejoined 
Wolfe. 

Glendower  made  no  answer. 

"Oh!"  said  Wolfe,  in  the  low,  suppressed  tone  of  intense 
passion  which  was  customary  to  him,  "it  maddens  me  to  look 
upon  the  willingness  with  which  men  hug  their  trappings  of 
slavery, — bears,  proud  of  the  rags  which  deck,  and  the  monkeys 
which  ride  them.  But  it  frets  me  yet  more  when  some  lordling" 
sweeps  along,  lifting  his  dull  eyes  above  the  fools  whose  only 
crime  and  debasement  are— what  ?— their  subjection  to /^/w/ 
Such  an  one  I  encountered  a  few  nights  since ;  and  he  will 
remember  the  meeting  longer  than  I  shall.  I  taught  that  'god 
to  tremble.' " 

The  female  rose,  glanced  towards  her  husband,  and  silently 
withdrew. 

Wolfe  paused  for  a  few  moments,  looked  curiously  and  prymgly 


178  THE   DISOWNED. 

round,  and  then  rising,  went  forth  into  the  passage  to  see  that 
no  loiterer  or  listener  was  near — returned,  and,  drawing  his 
chair  close  to  Glendower,  fixed  his  dark  eye  upon  him  and 
said : 

"You  are  poor,  and  your  spirit  rises  against  your  lot;  you 
are  just,  and  your  heart  swells  against  the  general  oppression 
you  behold  ;  can  you  not  dare  to  remedy  your  ills  and  those  of 
mankind?" 

*'  I  can  dare,"  said  Glendower  calmly,  though  haughtily,  "  all 
things  but  crime." 

"And  which  is  crime? — the  rising  against,  or  the  submission 
to,  evil  government?     Which  is  crime,  I  ask  you?" 

"  That  which  is  the  most  imprudent,"  answered  Glendower. 
"  We  may  sport  in  ordinary  cases  with  our  own  safeties,  but  only 
in  rare  cases  with  the  safety  of  others." 

Wolfe  rose,  and  paced  the  narrow  room  impatiently  to  and 
fro.  He  paused  by  the  window,  and  threw  it  open.  "Come 
here,"  he  cried — "come,  and  look  out." 

Glendower  did  so — all  was  still  and  quiet. 

"  Why  did  you  call  me  ?  "  said  he  ;  '*  I  see  nothing." 

"  Nothing  !  "  exclaimed  Wolfe  ;  "  look  again — look  on  yon 
sordid  and  squalid  huts — look  at  yon  court,  that  from  this 
wretched  street  leads  to  abodes  to  which  these  are  as  palaces  : 
look  at  yon  victims  of  vice  and  famine,  plying  beneath  the  mid- 
night skies  their  filthy  and  infectious  trade.  Wherever  you  turn 
your  eyes,  what  see  you  ?  Misery,  loathsomeness,  sin  !  Are 
you  a  man,  and  call  you  these  nothing  !  And  now  lean  forth 
still  more — see  afar  off,  by  yonder  lamp,  the  mansion  of  illgot- 
ten  and  griping  wealth.  He  who  owns  those  buildings,  what  did 
he  that  he  should  riot  while  we  starve  ?  He  wrung  from  the 
negro's  tears  and  bloody  sweat  the  luxuries  of  a  pampered  and 
vitiated  taste  :  he  pandered  to  the  excesses  of  the  rich  :  he 
heaped  their  tables  with  the  product  of  a  nation's  groans.  Lo  ! 
his  reward  !  He  is  rich — prosperous — honored  !  He  sits  in 
the  legislative  assembly  ;  he  declaims  against  immorality  ;  he 
contends  for  the  safety  of  property,  and  the  equilibrium  of 
ranks.  Transport  yourself  from  this  spot  for  an  instant — 
imagine  that  you  survey  the  gorgeous  homes  of  aristocracy  and 
power — the  palaces  of  the  west.  What  see  you  there  ?  The 
few  sucking,  draining,  exhausting  the  blood,  the  treasure,  the 
very  existence  of  the  many.  Are  we,  who  are  of  the  many, 
wise  to  suffer  it?" 

"  Are  we  of  the  many  ?  "  said  Glendower. 

"  We  could  be,"  said  Wolfe  hastily. 


THE   DISOWNED.  ijg 

"  I  doubt  it,"  replied  Glendow.er. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  republican,  laying  his  hand  upon  Glen- 
dower's  shoulder,  "  listen  to  me.  There  are  in  this  country 
men  whose  spirits  not  years  of  delayed  hope,  wearisome  perse- 
cution,  and,  bitterer  than  all,  misrepresentation  from  some  and 
contempt  from  others,  have  yet  quelled  and  tamed.  We  watch 
our  opportunity  ;  the  growing  distress  of  the  country,  the 
increasing  severity  and  misrule  of  the  administration  will  soon 
afford  it  us.  Your  talents,  your  benevolence,  render  you 
worthy  to  join  us.     Do  so,  and — " 

"  Hush  !  "  interrupted  the  student ;  "  you  know  not  what  you 
say  :  you  weigh  not  the  folly,  the  madness  of  your  design  I  I 
am  a  man  more  fallen,  more  sunken,  more  disappointed  than 
you.  I,  too,  have  had  at  my  heart  the  burning  and  lonely  hope 
which,  through  years  of  misfortune  and  want,  has  comforted 
me  with  the  thought  of  serving  and  enlightening  mankind — I, 
too,  have  devoted  to  the  fulfilment  of  that  hope,  days  and 
nights,  in  which  the  brain  grew  dizzy,  and  the  heart  heavy  and 
clogged  with  the  intensity  of  my  pursuits.  Were  the  dungeon 
and  the  scaffold  my  reward,  Heaven  knows  that  I  would  not 
flinch  eye  nor  hand,  or  abate  a  jot  of  heart  and  hope  in  the 
thankless  prosecution  of  my  toils.  Know  me,  then,  as  one  of 
fortunes  more  desperate  than  yOur  own  ;  of  an  ambition  more 
unquenchable  ;  of  a  philanthropy  no  less  ardent ;  and  I  7tn7l 
add,  of  a  courage  no  less  firm  :  and  behold  the  utter  hopeless- 
ness of  your  projects  with  others,  when  to  me  they  only  appear 
the  visions  of  an  enthusiast." 

Wolfe  sunk  down  in  the  chair. 

"  Is  it  even  so  ? "  said  he,  slowly  and  musingly.  "  Are  my 
hopes  but  delusions  ?  Has  my  life  been  but  one  idle,  though 
convulsive  dream  ? — is  the  goddess  of  our  religion  banished 
from  this  great  and  populous  earth,  to  the  seared  and  barren 
hearts  of  a  few  solitary  worshippers,  whom  all  else  despise  as 
madmen  or  persecute  as  idolaters  ?  And  if  so,  shall  we  adore 
her  the  less  ?  No  !  though  we  perish  in  her  cause,  it  is  around 
her  altar  that  our  corpses  shall  be  found  !  " 

"  My  friend,"  said  Glendower  kindly,  for  he  was  touched 
by  the  sincerity,  though  opposed  to  the  opinions,  of  the  repub- 
lican, "  the  night  is  yet  early  :  we  will  sit  down  to  discuss  our 
several  doctrines  calmly,  and  in  the  spirit  of  truth  and  investi- 
gation." 

"  Away  !  "  cried  Wolfe,  rising  and  slouching  his  hat  over  his 
bent  and  lowering  brows  ;  "  away  !  I  will  not  listen  to  you— I 
dread  your  reasonings— I  would  not  have  a  particle  of  my  faith 


l8o  THE    DISOWNED. 

shaken.  If  I  err,  I  have  erred  from  my  birth  :  erred  with 
Brutus  and  Tell,  Hampden  and  Milton,  and  all  whom  the 
thousand  tribes  and  parties  of  earth  consecrate  with  their 
common  gratitude  and  eternal  reverence.  In  that  error  I  will 
die  !  If  our  party  can  struggle  not  with  hosts,  there  may  yet 
arise  some  minister  with  the  ambition  of  Caesar,  if  not  his 
genius — of  whom  a  single  dagger  can  rid  the  earth  !  " 

"  And  if  not  ?  "  said  Glendower. 

"  I  have  the  same  dagger  for  myself,"  replied  Wolfe,  as  he 
closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

"  Bolingbroke  has  said  that  '  Man  is  his  own  sharper  and  his  own  bubble  *; 
and  certainly  he  who  is  acutest  in  duping  others  is  ever  the  most  ingenious 
in  outwitting  himself.  The  criminal  is  always  a  sophist  ;  and  finds  in  his 
own  reason  a  special  pleader  to  twist  laws  human  and  divine  into  a  sanction 
of  his  crime.  The  rogue  is  so  much  in  the  habit  of  cheating,  that  he 
packs  the  cards  even  when  playing  at  Patience  with  himself." — Stephen 
Montague. 

The  only  two  acquaintances  in  this  populous  city  whom 
Glendower  possessed,  who  were  aware  that  in  a  former  time 
he  had  known  a  better  fortune,  were  Wolfe,  and  a  person  of 
far  higher  worldly  estimation,  of  the  name  of  Crauford. 
With  the  former  the  student  had  become  acquainted  by  the 
favor  of  chance,  which  had  for  a  short  time  made  them  lodgers 
in  the  same  house.  Of  the  particulars  of  Glendower's  earliest 
history,  Wolfe  was  utterly  ignorant  ;  but  the  addresses  upon 
some  old  letters,  which  he  had  accidentally  seen,  had  informed 
him  that  Glendower  had  formerly  borne  another  name  ;  and  it 
was  easy  to  glean  from  the  student's  conversation  that  something 
of  greater  distinction  and  prosperity  than  he  now  enjoyed  was 
coupled  with  the  appellation  he  had  renounced.  Proud,  melan- 
choly, austere — brooding  upon  thoughts  whose  very  loftiness 
received  somewhat  of  additional  grandeur  from  the  gloom 
which  encircled  it — Glendower  found,  in  the  ruined  hopes  and 
the  solitary  lot  of  the  republican,  that  congeniality  which 
neither  Wolfe's  habits,  nor  the  excess  of  his  political  fervor, 
might  have  afforded  to  a  nature  which  philosophy  had  rendered 
moderate  and  early  circumstances  refined.  Crauford  was  far 
better  acquainted  than  Wolfe  with  the  reverses  Glendower  had 
undergone.  Many  years  ago,  he  had  known,  and  indeed 
travelled  with,  him  upon  the  continent  ;  since  then,  they  had 
not  met  until  about  six  months  prior  to  the  time  in  which 


TI[E    DISOWNED.  l8l 

"Glendower  is  presented  to  the  reader.  It  was  in  an  obscure 
street  of  the  city,  that  Crauford  had  then  encountered  Glen- 
dower,  whose  haunts  were  so  little  frequented  by  the  higher 
orders  of  society  that  Crauford  was  the  first,  and  the  only  one, 
of  his  former  acquaintance  with  whom  for  years  he  had  been 
brought  into  contact.  That  person  recognized  him  at  once, 
accosted  him,  followed  him  home,  and  three  days  afterwards 
surprised  him  with  a  visit.  Of  manners  which,  in  their  dis- 
simulation, extended  far  beyond  the  ordinary  ease  and  breeding 
of  the  world,  Crauford  readily  appeared  not  to  notice  the 
altered  circumstances  of  his  old  acquaintance  ;  and,  by  a  tone 
of  conversation  artfully  respectful,  he  endeavored  to  remove 
from  Glendower's  mind  that  soreness  which  his  knowledge 
of  human  nature  told  him  that  his  visit  was  calculated  to 
create. 

There  is  a  certain  species  of  pride  which  contradicts  the  ordi- 
nary symptoms  of  the  feeling,  and  appears  most  elevated  when 
it  would  be  reasonable  to  expect  it  should  be  most  depressed. 
Of  this  sort  was  Glendower's.  When  he  received  the  guest 
who  had  known  him  in  his  former  prosperity,  some  natural  sen- 
timent of  emotion  called,  it  is  true,  to  his  pale  cheek  a  momen- 
tary flush,  as  he  looked  round  his  humble  apartment,  and  the 
evident  signs  of  poverty  it  contained  ;  but  his  address  was  calm 
and  self-possessed,  and  whatever  mortification  he  might  have 
felt,  no  intonation  of  his  voice,  no  tell-tale  embarrassment  of 
manner,  revealed  it.  Encouraged  by  this  air,  even  while  he 
was  secretly  vexed  by  it,  and  perfectly  unable  to  do  justice  to 
the  dignity  of  mind  which  gave  something  of  majesty,  rather 
than  humiliation,  to  misfortune,  Crauford  resolved  to  repeat  his 
visit,  and  by  intervals,  gradually  lessening,  renewed  it,  till  ac- 
quaintance seemed,  though  little  tinctured,  at  least  on  Glen- 
dower's side,  \>y  friendship,  to  assume  the  semblance  oi  intimacy. 
It  was  true,  however,  that  he  had  something  to  struggle  against 
in  Glendower's  manner,  which  certainly  grew  colder  in  propor- 
tion to  the  repetition  of  the  visits;  and,  at  length,  Glendower 
said,  with  an  ease  and  quiet  which  abashed,  for  a  moment,  an  ef- 
frontery both  of  mind  and  manner,  which  was  almost  parallel, 
"  Believe  me,  Mr.  Crauford,  I  feel  fully  sensible  of  your  attentions; 
but  as  circumstances  at  present  are  such  as  to  render  an  inter- 
course between  us  little  congenial  to  the  habits  and  sentiments 
of  either,  you  will  probably  understand  and  forgive  my  motives 
in  wishing  no  longer  to  receive  civilities  which,  however  I  may 
feel  them,  I  am  unable  to  return." 

Crauford  colored,  and  hesitated,  before  he  replied  :  "  Forgive 


IS2  THE    DISOWNED. 

me  then,"  said  he,  "for  my  fault.  I  did  venture  to  hope  that 
no  circumstances  would  break  off  an  acquaintance  to  me  so 
valuable.  Forgive  me  if  I  did  imagine  that  an  intercourse  be- 
tween mind  and  mind  could  be  equally  carried  on,  whether  the 
mere  body  were  lodged  in  a  palace  or  a  hovel  ";  and  then  sud- 
denly changing  his  tone  into  that  of  affectionate  warmth,  Crau- 
ford  continued  :  "  My  dear  Glendower,  my  dear  friend,  I  would 
say,  if  I  durst,  is  not  your  pride  rather  to  blame  here?  Believe 
me,  in  my  turn,  I  fully  comprehend  and  bow  to  it ;  but  it  wounds 
me  beyond  expression.  Were  you  in  your  proper  station,  a  sta- 
tion much  higher  than  my  own,  I  would  come  to  you  at  once, 
and  proffer  my  friendship — as  it  is,  I  cannot ;  but  your  pride 
wrongs  me,  Glendower — indeed  it  does." 

And  Crauford  turned  away,  apparently  in  the  bitterness  of 
wounded  feeling. 

Glendower  was  touched  :  and  his  nature,  as  kind  as  it  was 
proud,  immediately  smote  him  for  conduct  certainly  ungracious, 
and  perhaps  ungrateful.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Crauford  ; 
with  the  most  respectful  warmth,  that  personage  seized  and 
pressed  it :  and  from  that  time  Crauford's  visits  appeared  to 
receive  a  license  which,  if  not  perfectly  welcome,  was  at  least 
never  again  questioned: 

"I  shall  have  this  man  now,"  muttered  Crauford,  between 
his  ground  teeth,  as  he  left  the  house,  and  took  his  way  to  his 
counting-house.  There,  cool,  bland,  fawning,  and  weaving  in 
his  close  and  dark  mind  various  speculations  of  guilt  and  craft, 
he  sat  among  his  bills  and  gold,  like  the  very  gnome  and  per- 
sonification of  that  Mammon  of  gain  to  which  he  was  the  most 
supple,  though  concealed,  adherent. 

Richard  Crauford  was  of  a  new  but  not  unimportant  family. 
His  father  had  entered  into  commerce,  and  left  a  flourishing 
firm,  and  a  name  of  great  respectability  in  his  profession,  to  his 
son.  That  son  was  a  man  whom  many  and  opposite  qualities 
rendered  a  character  of  very  singular  and  uncommon  stamp. 
Fond  of  the  laborious  acquisition  of  money,  he  was  equally 
attached  to  the  ostentatious  pageantries  of  expense.  Profound- 
ly skilled  in  the  calculating  business  of  his  profession,  he  was 
devoted  equally  to  the  luxuries  of  pleasure  ;  but  the  pleasure 
was  suited  well  to  the  mind  which  pursued  it.  The  divine  in- 
toxication of  that  love  where  the  delicacies  and  purities  of  af- 
fection consecrate  the  humanity  of  passion,  was  to  him  a  thing 
of  which  not  even  his  youngest  imagination  had  ever  dreamed. 
The  social  concomitants  of  the  Avine  cup — (which  have  for  the 
lenient  an  excuse,  for  the  austere  a  temptation) — the  generous 


TMfe   DISOWNEt).  1^3 

expanding  of  the  heart — the  increased  yearning  to  kindly  af- 
fection—the lavish  spirit  throwing  off  its  exuberance  in  the 
thousand  lights  and  emanations  of  wit— these,  which  have  ren- 
dered the  molten  grape,  despite  of  its  excesses,  not  unworthy 
of  the  praise  of  immortal  hymns,  and  taken  harshness  from  the 
judgment  of  those  averse  to  its  enjoyment — these  never  pre- 
sented an  inducement  to  the  stony  temperament  and  dormant 
heart  of  Richard  Crauford. 

He  looked  upon  the  essences  of  things  internal  as  the  com- 
mon eye  upon  outward  nature,  and  loved  the  many  shapes  of 
evil  as  the  latter  does  the  varieties  of  earth,  not  for  their  graces, 
but  their  utility.  His  loves,  coarse  and  low,  fed  their  rank  fires 
from  an  unmingled  and  gross  depravity.  His  devotion  to  wine 
was  either  solitary  and  unseen — for  he  loved  safety  better  than 
mirth^ — or  in  company  with  those  whose  station  flattered  his 
vanity,  not  whose  fellowship  ripened  his  crude  and  nipped  af- 
fections. Even  the  recklessness  of  vice  in  him  had  the  char- 
acter of  prudence ;  and,  in  the  most  rapid  and  turbulent  stream 
of  his  excesses,  one  might  detect  the  rocky  and  unmoved  heart 
of  the  calculator  at  the  bottom. 

Cool,  sagacious,  profound  in  dissimulation,  and  not  only  ob- 
servant of,  but  deducing  sage  consequences  from,  those  human 
inconsistencies  and  frailities  by  which  it  was  his  aim  to  profit, 
he  cloaked  his  deeper  vices  with  a  masterly  hypocrisy — and  for 
those  too  dear  to  forego  and  too  difficult  to  conceal,  he  obtained 
pardon  by  the  intercession  of  virtues  it  cost  him  nothing  to 
assume.  Regular  in  his  attendance  at  worship — professing 
rigidness  of  faith,  beyond  the  tenets  of  the  orthodox  church — 
subscribing  to  the  public  charities,  where  the  common  eye 
knoweth  what  the  private  hand  giveth — methodically  constant 
to  the  forms  of  business— primitively  scrupulous  in  the  pro- 
prieties of  speech — hospitable,  at  least  to  his  superiors — and, 
being  naturally  smooth,  both  of  temper  and  address,  popular 
with  his  inferiors — it  was  no  marvel  that  one  part  of  the  world 
forgave,  to  a  man  rich  and  young,  the  irregularities  of  dissipa- 
tion—that another  forgot  real  immorality  in  favor  of  affected 
religion— or  that  the  remainder  allowed  the  most  unexception- 
able excellence  of  words  to  atone  for  the  unobtrusive  errors  of 
a  conduct  which  did  not  prejudice  them. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  his  friends,  "  that  he  loves  women  too  much; 
but  he  is  young— he  will  marry  and  amend." 

Mr.  Crauford  did  warr)-— and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  for  love 
• — at  least  for  that  brute-like  love  of  which  alone  he  was  capable. 
After  a  few  years  of  ill-usage  on  his  side,  and  endurance  of  his 


184  TH£  DISOWNED. 

wife's,  they  parted.  Tired  of  her  person,  and  profiting  by  her 
gentleness  of  temper,  he  sent  her  to  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
country,  to  starve  upon  the  miserable  pittance  which  was  all 
he  allowed  her  from  his  superfluities.  Even  then — such  is  the 
effect  of  the  showy  proprieties  of  form  and  word — Mr.  Crauford 
sank  not  in  the  estimation  of  the  world. 

"It  was  easy  to  see,"  said  the  spectators  of  his  domestic  drama, 
"  that  a  man  in  temper  so  mild — in  his  business  so  honorable — 
so  civil  of  speech — so  attentive  to  the  stocks  and  the  sermon — 
could  not  have  been  the  party  to  blame.  One  never  knew  the 
rights  of  matrimonial  disagreements,  nor  could  sufficiently 
estimate  the  provoking  disparities  of  temper.  Certainly  Mrs. 
Crauford  never  did  look  in  good  humor,  and  had  not  the  open 
countenance  of  her  husband  ;  and  certainly  the  very  excesses 
of  Mr.  Crauford  betokened  a  generous  warmth  of  heart,  which  the 
suUennessof  his  conjugal  partner  might  easily  chill  and  revolt." 

And  thus,  unquestioned  and  unblamed,  Mr.  Crauford  walked 
onward  in  his  beaten  way  ;  and  secretly  laughing  at  the  tolera- 
tion of  the  crowd,  continued,  at  his  luxurious  villa,  the  orgies 
of  a  passionless,  yet  brutal,  sensuality. 

So  far  might  the  character  of  Richard  Crauford  find  parallels 
in  hypocrisy  and  its  success.  Dive  we  now  deeper  into  his 
soul.  Possessed  of  talents  which,  though  of  a  secondary  rank, 
were  in  that  rank  consummate,  Mr.  Crauford  could  not  be  a 
villain  by  intuition,  or  the  irregular  bias  of  his  nature  ;  he  was 
a  villain  upon  a  grander  scale  :  he  was  a  villain  upon  system. 
Having  little  learning  and  less  knowledge,  out  of  his  profession, 
his  reflection  expended  itself  upon  apparently  obvious  deduc- 
tions from  the  great  and  mysterious  book  of  life.  He  saw  vice 
prosperous  in  externals,  and  from  this  sight  his  conclusion  was 
drawn.  "Vice,"  said  'he,  "  is  not  an  obstacle  to  success;  and 
if  so,  it  is  at  least  a  pleasanter  road  to  it  than  your  narrow  and 
thorny  ways  of  virtue."  But  there  are  certain  vices  which  re- 
quire the  mask  of  virtue,  and  Crauford  thought  it  easier  to 
wear  the  mask  than  to  school  his  soul  to  the  reality.  So  to  the 
villain  he  added  the  hypocrite.  He  found  the  success  equalled 
his  hopes,  for  he  had  both  craft  and  genius  ;  nor  was  he,  natu- 
rally, without  the  minor  amiabilities  which,  to  the  ignorance  of 
the  herd,  seem  more  valuable  than  coin  of  a  more  important 
amount.  Blinded  as  we  are  by  prejudice,  we  not  only  mistah 
h\x\. prefer  decencies  to  moralities  ;  and,  like  the  inhabitants©! 
Cos,  when  offered  the  choice  of  two  statues  of  the  same  god 
dess,  we  choose,  not  that  which  is  the  most  beautiful,  but  tha* 
which  is  the  most  dressed. 


THE  DISOWNED.  185 

Accustomed  easily  to  dupe  mankind,  Crauford  soon  grew  to 
despise  them  ;  and  from  justifying  roguery  by  his  own  interest, 
he  now  justified  it  by  the  folly  of  others  ;  and  as  no  wretch  is 
so  unredeemed  as  to  be  without  excuse  to  himself,  Crauford 
actually  persuaded  his  reason  that  he  was  vicious  upon  prin- 
ciple, and  a  rascal  on  a  system  of  morality.  But  why  the  desire 
of  this  man,  so  consummately  worldly  and  heartless,  for  an  in- 
timacy with  the  impoverished  and  powerless  student  ?  This 
question  is  easily  answered.  In  the  first  place,  during  Crau- 
ford's  acquaintance  with  Glendower  abroad,  the  latter  had 
often,  though  innocently,  galled  the  vanity  and  self-pride  of 
the  parvenu  afiecUng  the  aristocrat,  and  in  poverty  the  parvenu 
was  anxious  to  retaliate.  But  this  desire  would  probably  have 
passed  away  after  he  had  satisfied  his  curiosity,  or  gloated  his 
spite,  by  one  or  two  insights  into  Glendower's  home — for 
Crauford,  though  at  times  a  malicious,  was  not  a  vindictive, 
man — had  it  not  been  for  a  much  more  powerful  object  which 
afterwards  occurred  to  him.  In  an  extensive  scheme  of  fraud, 
which  for  many  years  this  man  had  carried  on,  and  which  for 
secresy  and  boldness  was  almost  unequalled,  it  had  of  late  be- 
come necessary  to  his  safety  to  have  a  partner,  or  rather  tool. 
A  man  of  education,  talent,  and  courage  was  indispensable, 
and  Crauford  had  resolved  that  Glendower  should  be  that  man. 
With  the  supreme  confidence  in  his  own  powers  which  long 
success  had  given  him — with  a  sovereign  contempt  for,  or 
rather  disbelief  in,  human  integrity — and  with  a  thorough  con- 
viction that  the  bribe  to  him  was  the  bribe  with  all,  and  that 
none  could  on  any  account  be  poor  if  they  had  the  offer  to  be 
rich,  Crauford  did  not  bestow  a  moment's  consideration  upon 
the  difficulty  of  his  task,  or  conceive  that  in  the  nature  and 
mind  of  Glendower  there  could  exist  any  obstacle  to  his 
design. 

Men  addicted  to  calculation  are  accustomed  to  suppose  those 
employed  in  the  same  mental  pursuit  arrive,  or  ought  to  arrive, 
at  the  same  final  conclusion.  Now  looking  upon  Glendower 
as  a  philosopher,  Crauford  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  who, 
however  he  might  conceal  his  real  opinions,  secretly  laughed, 
like  Crauford's  self,  not  only  at  the  established  customs,  but  at 
the  established  moralities  of  the  world.  Ill-acquainted  with 
books,  the  worthy  Richard  was,  like  all  men  similarly  situated, 
somewhat  infected  by  the  very  prejudices  he  affected  to  despise  ; 
and  he  shared  the  vulgar  disposition  to  doubt  the  hearts  of 
those  who  cultivate  the  head.  Glendower  himself  had  con- 
firmed this  opinion  by  lauding,  though  he  did  not  entirdy  sub- 


lS6  THE   DISOWNED. 

scribe  to,  those  moralists  who  have  made  an  enlightened  self- 
interest  the  proper  measure  of  all  human  conduct ;  and  Crau- 
ford,  utterly  unable  to  comprehend  this  system  in  its  grand, 
naturally  interpreted  it  in  a  partial,  sense.  Espousing  self-in- 
terest as  his  own  code,  he  deemed  that  in  reality  Glendower's 
principles  did  not  differ  greatly  from  his  ;  and  as  there  is  no 
pleasure  to  a  hypocrite  like  that  of  finding  a  fit  opportunity  to 
unburden  some  of  his  real  sentiments,  Crauford  was  occasion- 
ally wont  to  hold  some  conference  and  argument  with  the 
student,  in  which  his  opinions  were  not  utterly  cloaked  in  their 
usual  disguise  ;  but  cautions  even  in  his  candor,  he  always 
forbore  stating  such  opinions  as  his  own  :  he  merely  mentioned 
them  as  those  which  a  roan,  beholding  the  villainies  and  follies 
of  his  kind,  might  be  tempted  to  form  ;  and  thus  Glendower, 
though  not  greatly  esteeming  his  acquaintance,  looked  upon 
him  as  one  ignorant  in  his  opinions  but  not  likely  to  err  in  his 
conduct. 

These  conversations  did,  however,  it  is  true,  increase  Crau- 
ford's  estimate  of  Glendower's  integrity,  but  they  by  no  means 
diminished  his  confidence  of  subduing  it.  Honor,  a  deep 
and  pure  sense  of  the  divinity  of  good,  the  steady  desire 
of  rectitude,  and  the  supporting  aid  of  a  sincere  religion — 
Ihese  he  did  not  deny  to  his  intended  tool  ;  he  rather  rejoiced 
that  he  possessed  them.  With  the  profound  arrogance,  the 
sense  of  immeasurable  superiority  which  men  of  no  principle 
invariably  feel  for  those  who  have  it,  Crauford  said  to  himself: 
"  Those  very  virtues  will  be  my  best  dupes— they  cannot  resist 
the  temptations  I  shall  offer,  but  they  can  resist  any  offer  to 
betray  me  afterwards,  for  no  man  can  resist  hunger  ;  but  your 
fine  feelings,  your  nice  honor,  your  precise  religion — he  !  he  ! 
he  ! — these  can  teach  a  man  very  well  to  resist  a  common  in- 
ducement :  they  cannot  make  liim  submit  to  be  his  own  exe- 
cutioner ;  but  they  can  prevent  his  turning  king's  evidence,  and 
being  executioner  to  another.  No,  no — it  is  not  to  your  com- 
mon rogue  that  I  may  dare  trust  my  secret — my  secret,  which 
is  my  life  !  It  is  precisely  of  such  a  fine,  Athenian,  moral 
rogue  as  I  shall  make  my  proud  friend,  that  I  am  in  want.  But 
he  has  some  silly  scruples  ;  we  must  beat  them  away — we  must 
not  be  too  rash  ;  and  above  all,  we  must  leave  the  best  argument 
to  poverty.  Want  is  your  finest  orator  ;  a  starving  wife — a 
famished  brat — he  !  he  ! — these  are  your  true  tempters — your 
true  fathers  of  crime,  and  fillers  of  gaols  and  gibbets.  Let  me 
see ;  he  has  no  money  I  knov/,  but  what  he  gets  from  that 
bookseller.     What  bookseller,  by-the-by  ?     Ah,  rare  thought } 


THE  DISOWNED.  187 

I'll  find  out,  and  cut  off  that  supply.  My  lady  wife's  check 
will  look  somewhat  thinner  next  month,  I  fancy — he !  he ! 
But  'tis  a  pity,  for  she  is  a  glorious  creature  !  Who  knows 
but  I  may  serve  two  purposes  ?  However,  one  at  present ! 
business  first,  and  pleasure  afterwards — and  faith,  the  business 
is  damnably  like  that  of  life  and  death." 

Muttering  such  thoughts  as  these,  Crauford  took  his  way  one 
evening  to  Glendower's  house. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

" /ag<^— Virtue  ;    a  fig! — 'tis  in  ourselves  that  we  are  thus  and  thus."— 

Othello. 

"  So — so,  my  little  one,  don't  let  me  disturb  you.  Madam, 
dare  I  venture  to  hope  your  acceptance  of  this  fruit .'  I  chose 
it  myself,  and  I  am  somewhat  of  a  judge.  Oh!  Glendower, 
here  is  the  pamphlet  you  wished  to  see." 

With  this  salutation,  Crauford  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  by 
which  Glendower  sate,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  his 
purposed  victim,  A  comely  and  a  pleasing  countenance  had 
Richard  Crauford  !  the  lonely  light  of  the  room  fell  upon  a 
face  which,  though  forty  years  of  guile  had  gone  over  it,  was 
as  fair  and  unwrinkled  as  a  boy's.  Small,  well-cut  features — 
a  blooming  complexion — eyes  of  lightest  blue — a  forehead 
high,  though  narrow,  and  a  mouth  from  which  the  smile  was 
never  absent :  these,  joined  to  a  manner  at  once  soft  and  con- 
fident, and  an  elegant,  though  unaftected,  study  of  dress,  gave 
to  Crauford  a  personal  appearance  well  suited  to  aid  the  effect 
of  his  hypocritical  and  dissembling  mind. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "always  at  your  books — eh! 
Ah  1  it  is  a  happy  taste  ;  would  that  I  had  cultivated  it  more  ; 
but  we  who  are  condemned  to  business  have  little  leisure  to 
follow  our  own  inclinations.  It  is  only  on  Sundays  that  I  have 
time  to  read ;  and  then  (to  say  truth,  I  am  an  old-fash- 
ioned man,  whom  the  gayer  part  of  the  world  laughs  at),  and 
then  I  am  too  occupied  with  the  Book  of  Books  to  think  of 
any  less  important  study." 

Not  deeming  that  a  peculiar  reply  was  required  to  this  pious 
speech,  Glendower  did  not  take  that  advantage  of  Crauford's 
pause  which  it  was  evidently  intended  that  he  should.  With  a 
glance  towards  the  student's  wife,  our  mercantile  friend  con« 
tinued  :     "  I  did  once — once,  in  my  young  dreams,  intend— 


iSS  THE  DISOWNED. 

that  whenever  I  married  I  would  relinquish  a  profession  for 
which,  after  all,  I  am  but  little  calculated.  I  pictured  to  my- 
self a  country  retreat,  well  stored  with  books  ;  and  having  con- 
centrated in  one  home  all  the  attractions  which  could  have 
tempted  my  thoughts  abroad,  I  had  designed  to  surrender  my- 
self solely  to  those  studies  which,  I  lament  to  say,  were  but  ill 
attended  to  in  my  earlier  education.  But — but," — (here  Mr. 
Craufoid  sighed  deeply,  and  averted  his  face) — "fate  willed  it 
otherwise  !  " 

Whatever  reply  of  sympathetic  admiration  or  condolence 
Glendower  might  have  made,  was  interrupted  by  one  of  those 
sudden  and  overpowering  attacks  of  faintness  which  had  of 
late  seized  the  delicate  and  declining  health  of  his  wife.  He 
rose,  and  leant  over  her  with  a  fondness  and  alarm  which 
curled  the  lip  of  his  visitor. 

"  Thus  it  is,"  said  Crauford  to  himself,  "with  weak  minds 
under  the  influence  of  habit.  The  love  of  lust  becomes  the 
love  of  custom,  and  the  last  is  as  strong  as  the  first." 

When  she  had  recovered,  she  rose,  and  (with  her  child)  re- 
tired to  rest,  the  only  restorative  she  ever  found  effectual  for 
her  complaint.  Glendower  went  with  her,  and,  after  having 
seen  her  eyes,  which  swam  with  tears  of  gratitude  at  his  love, 
close  in  the  seeming  slumber  she  affected  in  order  to  release 
him  from  his  watch,  he  returned  to  Crauford.  He  found  that 
gentleman  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece  with  folded  arms, 
and  apparently  immersed  in  thought.  A  very  good  opportun- 
ity had  Glendower's  absence  afforded  to  a  man  whose  boast  it 
was  never  to  lose  one.  Looking  over  the  papers  on  the  table, 
he  had  seen  and  possessed  himself  of  the  address  of  the  book- 
seller the  student  dealt  with.  "  So  much  for  business — now 
for  philanthropy,"  said  Mr.  Crauford,  in  his  favorite  antithet- 
ical phrase,  throwing  himself  in  his  attitude  against  the  chim- 
ney-piece. 

As  Glendower  entered,  Crauford  started  from  his  reverie, 
and  witli  a  melancholy  air  and  pensive  voice,  said  : 

"Alas,  my  friend,  when  I  look  upon  this  humble  apartment, 
the  weak  health  of  your  unequalled  wife — your  obscurity — your 
misfortunes;  when  I  look  upon  these,  and  contrast  them  with 
your  mind,  your  talents,  all  that  you  were  born  and  fitted  for, 
I  cannot  but  feel  tempted  to  believe  with  those  who  imagine 
the  pursuit  of  virtue  a  chimera,  and  who  justify  their  own 
worldly  policy  by  the  example  of  all  their  kind." 
•  "Virtue,"  said  Glendower,  "would  indeed  be  a  chimera,  did 
it  require  support  from  those  whom  you  have  cited." 


ttiE   DISOWNED.  ,189 

"True — most  true,"  answered  Crauford,  somewhat  discon- 
certed in  reality,  though  not  in  appearance;  "and  yet,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  I  have  known  some  of  tliosc  persons  very  good, 
admirably  good  men.  They  were  extremely  moral  and  relig- 
ous  ;  they  only  played  the  great  game  for  worldly  advantages 
upon  the  same  terms  as  the  other  players  ;  nay,  they  never 
made  a  move  in  it  without  most  fervently  and  sincerely  pray- 
ing for  divine  assistance." 

"  I  readily  believe  you,"  said  Glendower,  who  always,  if 
possible,  avoided  a  controversy — "  the  easiest  person  to  deceive 
is  one's  own  self." 

"Admirably  said,"  answered  Crauford,  who  thought  it,  nev- 
ertheless, one  of  the  most  foolish  observations  he  had  ever 
heard:  "admirably  said  ! — and  yet  my  heart  does  grieve  bit- 
terly for  the  trials  and  distresses  it  surveys.  One  must  make 
excuses  for  poor  human  frailty  ;  and  one  is  often  placed  in 
such  circumstances  as  to  render  it  scarcely  possible,  without 
the  grace  of  God  " — (here  Crauford  lifted  up  his  eyes) — "  not  to 
be  urged,  as  it  were,  into  the  reasonings  and  actions  of  the 
world." 

Not  exactly  comprehending  this  observation,  and  not  very 
closely  attending  to  it,  Glendower  merely  bowed,  as  in  assent, 
and  Crauford  continued  : 

"  I  remember  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  truth.  One  of 
my  partner's  clerks  had,  through  misfortune  or  imprudence, 
fallen  into  the  greatest  distress.  His  wife,  his  children — (he 
had  a  numerous  family) — were  on  the  literal  and  absolute  verge 
of  starvation.  Another  clerk,  taking  advantage  of  these  cir- 
cumstances, communicated  to  the  distressed  man  a  plan  for 
defrauding  his  employer.  The  poor  fellow  yielded  to  the  temp- 
tation, and  was  at  last  discovered.  I  spoke  to  him  myself,  for 
I  was  interested  in  his  fate,  and  had  always  esteemed  him.— - 
*  What,'  said  I,  '  was  your  motive  for  this  fraud  ? '  'My  duty  ! ' 
answered  the  man  fervently  ;  '  My  duty  !  Was  I  to  suffer  my 
wife,  my  children  to  starve  before  my  face,  when  I  could  save 
them  at  a  little  personal  risk  ?  No— my  duty  forbade  it !  '-- 
and  in  truth,  Glendower,  there  was  something  very  plausible  in 
this  manner  of  putting  the  question." 

"You  might,  in  answering  it,"  said  Glendower,  "  have  put 
the  point  in  a  manner  equally  plausible,  and  more  true  ;  was  he 
to  commit  a  great  crime  against  the  millions  connected  by 
social  order,  for  the  sake  of  serving  a  single  family— and  that 
his  own.' 

••Quite  right,"  answered  Crauford  ;  "that  was  just  the  point 


106  tHfe  DISOWNED. 

of  view  in  which  I  did  put  it  ;  but  the  man,  who  was  something 
of  a  reasoner,  replied,  '  Public  law  is  instituted  for  public  hap- 
piness. Now  if  mt'/ie  and  my  children's  happiness  is  infinitely 
and  immeasurably  more  served  by  this  comparatively  petty 
fraud  than  my  employer's  is  advanced  by  my  abstaining  from, 
or  injured  by  my  committing,  it,  why,  the  origin  of  law  itself 
allows  me  to  do  it.'  What  say  you  to  that,  Glendower  ?  It  is 
something  in  your  Utilitarian,  or,  as  you  term  it.  Epicurean* 
principle;  is  it  not?"  and  Crauford,  shading  his  eyes,  as  if 
from  the  light,  watched  narrowly  Glendower's  countenance, 
while  he  concealed  his  own. 

"  Poor  fool !  "  said  Glendower  ;  "  the  man  was  ignorant  of 
the  first  lesson  in  his  moral  primer.  Did  he  not  know  that  no 
rule  is  to  be  applied  to  a  peculiar  instance,  but  extended  to  its 
most  general  bearings  ?  Is  it  necessary  even  to  observe  that 
the  particular  consequence  of  fraud  in  this  man  might,  it  is 
true,  be  but  the  ridding  his  employer  of  superfluities,  scarcely 
missed,  for  the  relief  of  most  urgent  want  in  two  or  three  indi- 
viduals ;  but  the  general  consequences  of  fraud  and  treachery 
would  be  the  disorganization  of  all  society?  Do  not  think, 
therefore,  that  this  man  was  a  disciple  of  my,  or  of  any,  system 
of  morality." 

"  It  is  very  just,  very,"  said  Mr.  Crauford,  with  a  benevolent 
sigh  ;  "  but  you  will  own  that  want  seldom  allows  great  nicety 
in  moral  distinctions,  and  that,  when  those  whom  you  love 
most  in  the  world  are  starving,  you  may  be  pitied,  if  not  for- 
given, for  losing  sight  of  the  after  laws  of  nature,  and  recurring 
to  her  first  ordinance,  self-preservation." 

"  We  should  be  harsh,  indeed,"  answered  Glendower,  "if  we 
did  not  pity  ;  or,  even  while  the  law  condemned,  if  the  indi- 
vidual did  not  forgive." 

"  So  I  said,  so  I  said,"  cried  Crauford ;  "and  in  interceding 
for  the  poor  fellow,  whose  pardon  I  am  happy  to  say  I  pro- 
cured, I  could  not  help  declaring  that,  if  I  were  placed  in  the 
same  circumstances,  I  am  not  sure  that  my  crime  would  not 
have  been  the  same," 

"No  man  coulditoi  sure  !"  said  Glendower  dejectedly. 

Delighted  and  surprised  at  this  confession,  Crauford  con- 
tinued :  "I  believe — I  fear  not;  thank  God,  our  virtue  can 
never  be  so  tried  :  but  even  you,  Glendower,  even  you,  philos- 
opher, moralist  as  you  are — just,  good,  wise,  religious — even 

*  .See  the  article  on  Mr.  Moore's  Epicurean  in  the  "  Westminster  Review."  Though 
the  strictures  on  that  work  are  harsh  and  unjust,  yet  the  part  relating  to  the  real  philoso* 
phy  of  Epicurus  is  one  of  the  most  masterly  things  in  criticism. 


THE   DISOWNED.  igi 

you  might  be  tempted,  if  you  saw  your  'angel  wife  dying  for 
want  of  the  aid,  the  very  sustenance,  necessary  to  existence, 
and  your  innocent  and  beautiful  daughter  stretch  her  little 
hands  to  you,  and  cry  in  the  accents  of  famine  for  bread." 

•The  student  made  no  reply  fora  few  moments,  but  averted 
his  countenance,  and  then  in  a  slow  tone  said,  "  Let  us  drop 
this  subject;  none  know  their  strength  until  they  are  tried; 
self-confidence  should  accompany  virtue,  but  not  precede  it." 

A  momentary  flash  broke  from  the  usually  calm,  cold  eye  of 
Richard  Crauford.  "  He  is  mine,"  thought  he  ;  "  the  very  name 
of  want  abases  his  pride  ;  what  will  the  reality  do  ?  O  human 
nature,  how  I  know  and  mock  thee!" 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Crauford,  aloud  ;  "  let  us  talk  of  the 
pamphlet.". 

And  after  a  short  conversation  upon  indifferent  subjects,  the 
visitor  departed. 

Early  the  next  morning  was  Mr.  Crauford  seen  on  foot,  tak- 
ing his  way  to  the  bookseller,  whose  address  he  had  learnt. 
The  bookseller  was  known  as  a  man  of  a  strongly  evangelical 
bias.  "  We  must  insinuate  a  lie  or  two,"  said  Crauford  inly, 
**  about  Glendower's  principles.  He  I  he !  it  will  be  a  fine 
stroke  of  genius  to  make  the  upright  tradesman  suffer  Glen- 
dower  to  starve,  out  of"  a  principle  of  religion.  But  who  would 
have  thought  my  prey  had  been  so  easily  snared  ? — why,  if  I 
had  proposed  the  matter  last  night,  I  verily  think  he  would  have 
agreed  to  it." 

Amusing  himself  with  these  thoughts,  Crauford  arrived  at 
the  bookseller's.  There  he  found  Fate  had  saved  him  from 
one  crime  at  least.  The  whole  house  was  in  confusion — the 
bookseller  had  that  morning  died  of  an  apoplectic  fit. 

"  Good  God  !  how  shocking !  "  said  Crauford  to  the  foreman; 
"but  he  was  a  most  worthy  man,  and  Providence  could  no 
longer  spare  him.  The  ways  of  Heaven  are  inscrutable  ! 
Oblige  me  with  three  copies  of  that  precious  tract  termed  the 
'Divine  Call.'  I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to  attend  the 
funeral  of  so  excellent  a  man.  Good-morning,  sir.  Alas! 
alas  !  "  and  shaking  his  head  piteously,  Mr.  Crauford  left  the 
shop. 

"  Hurra  !  "  said  he,  almost  audibly,  when  he  was  once  more 
in  the  street,  "  hurra  !  my  victim  is  made,  my  game  is  won — 
death  or  the  devil  fights  for  me.  But,  hold — there  are  other 
booksellers  in  this  monstrous  city  ! — ay,  but  not  above  two  or 
three  in  our  philosopher's  way.  I  must  forestall  him  there — 
so,  so— that  is  soon  settled.     Now,  then,  I  must  leave  hira  a 


192  THE    DISOWNED. 

little  while  undisturbed,  to  his  fate.  Perhaps  my  next  visit  may 
be  to  him  in  jail ;  your  debtor's  side  of  the  Fleet  is  almost  as 
good  a  pleader  as  an  empty  stomach — he  !  he  !  he  I — but  the 
stroke  must  be  made  soon,  for  time  presses,  and  this  d — d 
business  spreads  so  fast  that  if  I  don't  have  a  speedy  help,-  it 
will  be  too  much  for  my  hands,  griping  as  they  are.  However, 
if  it  holds  on  a  year  longer,  I  will  change  my  seat  in  the  lower 
House  for  one  in  the  upper;  twenty  thousand  pounds  to  the 
minister  may  make  a  merchant  a  very  pretty  peer.  O  brave 
i  Richard  Crauford,  wise  Richard  Crauford,  fortunate  Richard 
Craiiford,  noMe  Richard  Crauford !  Why,  if  thou  art  ever 
hanged,  it  will  be  by  a  jury  o( peers.  Gad,  the  rope  would  then 
have  a  dignity  in  it,  instead  of  disgrace.     But  stay,  here  comes 

the  Dean  of ;  not  orthodox,  it  is  said — rigid  Calvinist  ! — 

out  with  the  *  Divine  Call ! ' " 

When  Mr.  Richard  Crauford  repaired  next  to  Glendower, 
what  was  his  astonishment  and  dismay  at  hearing  he  had  left 
his  home,  none  knew  whither,  nor  could  give  the  inquirer  the 
slightest  clue. 

"  How  long  has  he  left  ?  "  said  Crauford  to  the  landlady. 

"Five  days,  sir." 

"And  will  he  not  return  to  settle  any  little  debts  he  may 
have  incurred?"  said  Crauford. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir — he  paid  them  all  before  he  went.  Poor 
gentleman — for  though  he  was  poor,  he  was  the  finest  and  most 
thorough  gentleman  I  ever  saw  ! — my  heart  bled  for  him. 
They  parted  with  all  their  valuables  to  discharge  their  debts  : 
the  books,  and  instruments,  and  busts — all  went  ;  and  what  I 
saw,  though  he  spoke  so  indifferently  about  it,  hurt  him  the 
most — he  sold  even   the  lady's  picture.     *  Mrs.  Croftson,' said 

he,  "  Mr. ,  the  painter,  will   send  for  that  picture  the  day 

after  I  leave  you.  See  that  he  has  it,  and  that  the  greatest  care 
is  taken  of  it  in  delivery." 

"  And  you  cannot  even  guess  where  he  has  gone  to  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  a  single  porter  was  sufficient  to  convey  his  re- 
maining goods,  and  he  took  him  from  some  distant  part  of  the 
town." 

"  Ten  thousand  devils  !  "  muttered  Crauford,  as  he  turned 
away,  '*  I  should  have  foreseen  this  !  He  is  lost  now.  Of 
course  he  will  again  change  his  name  ;  and  in  the  d — d  holes 
and  corners  of  this  gigantic  puzzle  of  houses,  how  shall  I  ever 
find  him  out  ? — and  time  presses  too  ?  Well,  well,  well !  there 
is  a  fine  prize  for  being  cleverer,  or,  as  fools  would  say,  more 
rascally  th^n  Qth?rs ;  but  there  is  a  world  of  trouble  in  winning 


THE    DISOWNED.  J93 

it.  But  come — I  will  go  home,  lock  myself  up,  and  get  drunk ! 
I  am  as  melancholy  as  a  cat  in  love,  and  about  as  stupid  :  and, 
faith,  one  must  get  spirits  in  order  to  hit  on  a  new  invention! 
But  if  there  be  consistency  in  fortune,  or  success  in  per- 
severance, or  wit  in  Richard  Crauford,  that  man  shall  yet  be 
my  victim — and  preserver  !  " 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  Revenge  is  now  the  cud 
That  I  do  chew. — I'll  challenge  him." 

— Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

We  return  to  "  the  world  of  fashion,"  as  the  admirers  of  the 

polite  novel  of would  say.    The  noon-day  sun  broke  hot  and 

sultry  through  half-closed  curtains  of  roseate  silk,  playing  in 
broken  beams  upon  rare  and  fragrant  exotics,  which  cast  the 
perfumes  of  southern  summers  over  a  chamber,  moderate, 
indeed,  as  to  its  dimensions,  but  decorated  with  a  splendor 
rather  gaudy  than  graceful,  and  indicating  much  more  a  passion 
for  luxury  than  a  refinement  of  taste. 

At  a  small  writing-table  sat  the  beautiful  La  Meronville. 
She  had  just  finished  a  note,  written  (how  Jean  Jacques  would 
have  been  enchanted  !)  upon  paper  couleur  de  rose,  with  a 
mother-of-pearl  pen,  formed  as  one  of  Cupid's  darts,  dipped 
into  an  inkstand  of  the  same  material,  which  was  shaped  as  a 
quiver,  and  placed  at  the  back  of  a  little  Love,  exquisitely 
wrought.  She  was  folding  this  billet  when  a  page,  fantastically 
dressed,  entered,  and,  announcing  Lord  Borodaile,  was  imme- 
diately followed  by  that  nobleman.  Eagerly  and  almost  blush- 
ingly  did  La  Meronville  thrust  the  note  into  her  bosom,  and 
hasten  to  greet  and  to  embrace  her  adorer.  Lord  Borodaile 
flung  himself  on  one  of  the  sofas  with  a  listless  and  discontented 
air.  The  experienced  Frenchwoman  saw  that  there  was  a  cloud 
on  his  brow : 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  she,  in  her  own  tongue,  "  you  seem 
vexed — has  anything  annoyed  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Cecile,  no.  By-the-by,  who  supped  with  you  last 
night  ?" 

"Oh  !  the  Duke  of  Haverfield— your  friend." 

"  My  friend  !"  interrupted  Borodaile  haughtily — "  he's  no 
friend  of  mine — a  vulgar,  talkative  fellow — my  friend,  in' 
deed!" 


194  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon  :  then  there  was  Mademoiselle 
Caumartin,  and  the  prince  Pietro  del  Orbino,  and  Mr.  Tre- 
vanion,  and  Mr.  Lin — Lin — Linten,  or  Linden." 

"  And,  pray,  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  how  you  became 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Lin — Lin — Linten,  or  Linden  ?  " 

"  Assuredly — through  the  Duke  of  Haverfield." 

"  Humph — Cecile,  my  love,  that  young  man  is  not  fit  to  be 
the  acquaintance  of  my  friend — allow  me  to  strike  him  from 
your  list." 

"Certainly,  certainly!"  said  La  Meronville  hastily:  and 
stooping  as  if  to  pick  up  a  fallen  glove,  though,  in  reality,  to 
hide  her  face  from  Lord  Borodaile's  searching  eye,  the  letter 
she  had  written  fell  from  her  bosom.  Lord  Borodaile's  glance 
detected  the  superscription,  and  before  La  Meronville  could 
regain  the  note,  he  had  possessed  himself  of  it. 

"A  Monsieur,  Monsieur  Linden  !"  said  he  coldly,  reading 
the  address  ;  "  and,  pray,  how  long  have  you  corresponded  with 
that  gentleman  ?  " 

Now  La  Meronville's  situation  at  that  moment  was  by  no 
means  agreeable.  She  saw  at  one  glance  that  no  falsehood  or 
artifice  could  avail  her  ;  for  Lord  Borodaile  might  deem  him- 
self fully  justified  in  reading  the  note,  which  would  contradict 
any  glossing  statement  she  might  make.  She  saw  this.  She 
was  a  woman  of  independence — cared  not  a  straw  for  Lord 
Borodaile  at  present,  though  she  had  had  a  caprice  for  him — 
knew  that  she  might  choose  her  bon  ami  out  of  all  London,  and 
replied  : 

"  That  is  the  first  letter  I  ever  wrote  to  him ;  but  I  own 
that  it  will  not  be  the  last." 

Lord  Borodaile  turned  pale. 

"And  will  you  suffer  me  to  read  it?"  said  he;  for  even  in 
these  cases  he  was  punctiliously  honorable. 

La  Meronville  hesitated.  She  did  not  know  him.  "If  I  do 
not  consent,"  thought  she,  "  he  will  do  it  without  the  consent: 
better  submit  with  a  good  grace." — "Certainly  !"  she  answered, 
with  an  air  of  indifference. 

Borodaile  opened  and  read  the  note  ;  it  was  as  follows  : 

"You  have  inspired  me  with  a  feeling  for  you  which  astonishes 
myself.  Ah,  why  should  that  love  be  the  strongest  which  is  the 
swiftest  in  its  growth  ?  I  used  to  love  Lord  Borodaile — I  now 
only  esteem  him — the  love  has  flown  to  you.  If  I  judge  rightly 
from  your  words  and  your  eyes,  this  avowal  will  not  be  unwel- 
come to  you.  Come  and  assure  me,  in  person,  of  a  persuasion 
SO  dear  to  my  heart,  L.  M," 


tH£  OtSOWNJEi).  195 

"A  very  pretty  effusion  !"  said  Lord  Borodaile  sarcastically, 
and  only  showing  his  inward  rage  by  the  increasing  paleness  of 
his  complexion,  and  a  slight  compression  of  his  lip.  **I  thank 
you  for  your  confidence  in  me.  All  I  ask  is,  that  you  will  not 
send  this  note  till  to-morrow.  Allow  me  to  take  my  leave  of 
you  first,  and  to  find  in  Mr.  Linden  a  successor  rather  than  a 
rival." 

"Your  request,  my  friend,"  said  La  Meronville,  adjusting  her 
hair,  "  is  but  reasonable.  1  see  that  you  understand  these  ar- 
rangements ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  that  the  end  of  love 
should  always  be  the  beginning  of  friendship — let  it  be  so 
with  us ! " 

"  You  do  nie  too  much  honor,"  said  Borodaile,  bowing  pro- 
foundly. "  Meanwhile  I  depend  upon  your  promise,  and  bid 
you,  as  a  lover,  farewell  for  ever," 

With  his  usual  slow  step  Lord  Borodaile  descended  the 
stairs,  and  walked  towards  the  central  quartier  of  the  town. 
His  meditations  were  of  no  soothing  nature.  "To  be  seen  by 
that  man  in  a  ridiculous  and  degrading  situation — to  be  pestered 
with  his  d — d  civility — to  be  rivalled  by  him  with  Lady  Flora — 
to  be  duped  and  outdone  by  him  with  my  mistress !  Ay, — all 
this  have  I  been  ;  but  vengeance  shall  come  yet.  As  for  La 
Meronville,  the  loss  is  again ;  and,  thank  Heaven,  I  did  not  be- 
tray myself  by  venting  my  passion  and  making  a  scene.  But  it 
was  I  who  ought  to  have  discarded  her — not  the  reverse — and — 
death  and  confusion — for  that  upstart,  above  all  men  !  And 
she  talked  in  her  letter  about  his  eyes  and  words.  Insolent 
coxcomb,  to  dare  to  have  eyes  and  words  for  one  who  belonged 
tome.     Well,  well,  he  shall  smart  for  this.     But  letmeconsider — 

I  must  not  play  the  jealous  fool — must  not  fight  for  a ;  must 

not  show  the  world  that  a  man,  nobody  knows  who,  could  really 
outwit  and  outdo ///^ — me — Francis  Borodaile  ! — No,  no— I  must 
throw  the  insult  upon  him — must  myself  be  the  aggressor,  and  the 
challenged  ;  then,  too,  I  shall  have  the  choice  of  weapons — pistols 
of  course.  Where  shall  I  hit  him,  by-the-by  ? — I  wish  I  shot  as 
well  as  I  used  to  do  at  Naples.  I  was  in  full  practice  then. — 
Cursed  place,  where  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  practice  ! " 

Immersed  in  these,  or  somewhat  similar  refiections,  did  Lord 
Borodaile  enter  Pall  Mall. 

"Ah,  Borodaile  !  "  said  Lord  St.  George,  suddenly  emerging 
from  a  shop.  "  This  is  really  fortunate— you  are  going  my  way 
exactly — allow  me  to  join  you," 

Now  Lord  Borodaile,  to  say  nothing  of  his  happening  at  that 
time  to  be  in  a  mood  more  than  usually  unsocial,  could  never  at 


iqG  the  disowned. 

any  time  bear  the  thought  of  being  made  an  instrument  of  con- 
venience, pleasure,  or  good  fortune  to  another.  He'  therefore, 
with  a  little  resentment  at  Lord  St.  George's  familiarity,  coldly 
replied,  "  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  avail  myself  of  your  offer.  I 
am  sure  my  way  is  not  the  same  as  yours." 

"Then,"  replied  Lord  St.  George,  who  was  a  good-natured, 
indolent  man,  who  imagined  everybody  was  as  averse  to  walking 
alone  as  he  was — "then  I  will  make  w/«^  the  same  as  yours." 

Borodaile  colored  :  though  always  uncivil,  he  did  not  like  to 
be  excelled  in  good  manners  ;  and  therefore  replied,  that  nothing 
but  extreme  business  at  White's  could  have  induced  him  to  prefer 
his  own  way  to  that  of  Lord  St.  George. 

The  good-natured  peer  took  Lord  Borodaile's  arm.  It  was  a 
natural  incident,  but  it  vexed  the  punctilious  viscount,  that  any 
any  man  should  take,  not  offer,  the  support. 

"So,  they  say,"  observed  Lord  St.  George,  "that  young 
Linden  is  to  marry  Lady  Flora  Ardenne." 

"  Z«  on-diis  font  la  gazette  des  fous,"  rejoined  Borodaile  with 
a  sneer.  "  I  believe  that  Lady  Flora  is  little  likely  to  contract 
such  a  mesalliance." 

*^  Mesalliance!"  replied  Lord  St.  George.  "  I  thought  Linden 
was  of  a  very  old  family,  which  you  know  the  Westboroughs  are 
not,  and  he  has  great  expectations — " 

"Which  are  never  to  be  realized,"  interrupted  Borodaile, 
laughing  scornfully. 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  "  said  Lord  St.  George  seriously.  "  Well,  at  all 
events,  he  is  a  very  agreeable,  unaffected  young  man — and,  by- 
the  bye,  Borodaile,  you  will  meet  him  chez-moi io-day — you  know 
you  dine  with  me?" 

"Meet Mr.  Linden  !  I  shall  be  proud  to  have  that  honor," 
said  Borodaile,  with  sparkling  eyes  ;  "  will  Lady  Westborough 
be  also  of  the  party  ? " 

"  No,  poor  Lady  St.  George  is  very  ill,  and  I  have  taken  the 
opportunity  to  ask  only  men." 

"  You  have  done  wisely,  my  lord,"  said  Borodaile,  secum  multa 
revolvens  J  "and  I  assure  you  I  wanted  no  hint  to  remind  me  of 
your  invitation." 

Here  the  Duke  of  Haverfield  joined  them.  The  duke  never 
bowed  to  any  one  of  the  male  sex  ;  he  therefore  nodded  to 
Borodaile,  who,  with  a  very  supercilious  formality,  took  off  his 
hat  in  returning  the  salutation.  The  viscount  had  at  least  this 
merit  in  his  pride, —  that  if  it  was  reserved  to  thehumble,  it  was 
contemptuous  to  the  high :  his  inferiors  he  wished  to  remain 
where  they  were ;  his  eniia1=  lie  longed  to  lower. 


THE   DISOWNED.  I97 

"  So  I  dine  with  you.  Lord  St.  George,  to-day,"  said  the  duke ; 
''  whom  shall  I  meet  ? " 

"Lord  Borodaile,  for  one,"  answered  St.  George;  "my 
brother,  Aspeden,  Findlater,  Orbino  and  Linden." 

"  Linden  !  "  cried  the  duke  ;  "  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,  c'est  un 
homme  fait  expres  pour  mot.  He  is  very  clever,  and  not  above 
playing  the  fool ;  has  humor  without  setting  up  for  a  wit,  and  is 
a  good  fellow  without  being  a  bad  man.     I  like  him  excessively." 

'■  Lord  St.  George,"  said  Borodaile,  who  seemed  that  day  to 
be  the  very  martyr  of  the  unconscious  Clarence,  "I  wish  you 
good  morning.  I  have  only  just  remembered  an  engagement 
which  I  must  keep  before  I  go  to  White's." 

And,  with  a  bow  to  the  duke,  and  a  remonstrance  from  Lord  St. 
George,  Borodaile  effected  his  escape.  His  complexion  was,  in- 
sensibly to  himself,  more  raised  than  usual,  his  step  more  stately  ; 
his  mind,  for  the  first  time  for  years,  was  fully  excited  and  en- 
grossed. Ah,  what  a  delightful  thing  it  is  for  an  idle  man,  who 
has  been  dying  of  ennui,  to  find  an  enemy. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  You  must  challenge  him  ; 
There's  no  avoiding — one  or  both  must  drop." 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

"  Ha  ha,  ha — bravo  Linden  ! "  cried  Lord  St.  George,  from 
the  head  of  his  splendid  board,  in  approbation  of  some  witticism 
of  Clarence's  ;  and  ha,  ha,  ha!  or  he,  he,  he  !  according  to  the 
cachinnatory  intonations  of  the  guests,  rung  around. 

"  Your  lordship  seems  unwell,"  said  Lord  Aspeden  to  Boro- 
daile ;  "  allow  me  to  take  wine  with  you." 

Lord  Borodaile  bowed  his  assent. 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  St.  George  to  Clarence,  "have  you  seen 
my  friend  Talbot  lately?" 

"This  very  morning,"  replied  Linden  :  "indeed,  I  generally 
visit  him  three  or  four  times  a  week — he  often  asks  after  you." 

"Indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  St.  George,  rather  flattered  ;  "  he  does 
me  much  honor;  but  he  is  a  distant  connection  of  mine,  and 
I  suppose  I  must  attribute  his  recollection  of  me  to  that  cause. 
He  is  a  near  relation  of  yours,  too,  I  think — is  he  not  ?" 

"  I  am  related  to  him,"  answered  Clarence,  coloring. 

Lord  Borodaile  leant  forward,  and  his  lip  curled.  Though, 
in  some  respects,  a  very  unamiable  man,  he  had,  as  we  have 


%g&  THE   DlSOAVNED. 

said,  his  good  points.  He  hated  a  lie  as  much  as  Achilles  did  ; 
and  he  believed  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  Clarence  had  just 
uttered  one. 

"Why,"  observed  Lord  Aspeden,  "why.  Lord  Borodaile,  the 
Talbots,  of  Scarsdale,  are  branches  of  your  genealogical  tree  ; 
therefore  your  lordship  must  be  related  to  Linden  ;  you  are 
*  two  cherries  on  one  stalk  !  ' " 

"  We  are  by  no  means  related,"  said  Lord  Borodaile,  with  a 
distinct  and  clear  voice,  intended  expressly  for  Clarence  ; 
"  that  is  an  honor  which  I  must  beg  leave  most  positively  to 
disclaim." 

There  was  a  dead  silence — the  eyes  of  all  who  heard  a  remark 
so  intentionally  rude  were  turned  immediately  towards  Clarence. 
His  cheek  burnt  like  fire  ;  he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  in  the  same  key,  though  with  a  little  trembling  in  his 
intonation — 

"  Lord  Borodaile  cannot  be  more  anxious  to  disclaim  it  than 
I  am." 

"  And  yet,"  returned  the  viscount,  stung  to  the  soul,  "  they 
who  advance  false  pretensions  ought  at  least  to  support  them  !" 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  my  lord,"  said  Clarence. 

"  Possibly  not,"  answered  Borodaile,  carelessly  :  "  there  is  a 
maxim  which  says  that  people  not  accustomed  to  speak  truth 
cannot  comprehend  it  in  others." 

Unlike  the  generality  of  modem  heroes,  who  are  always- in  a 
passion — off-hand,  dashing  fellows,  in  whom  irascibility  is  a 
virtue — Clarence  was  peculiarly  sweet-tempered  by  nature,  and 
had,  by  habit,  acquired  a  command  over  all  his  passions  to  a 
degree  very  uncommon  in  so  young  a  man.  He  made  no  reply 
to  the  inexcusable  affront  he  had  received.  His  lip  quivered  a 
little,  and  the  flush  of  his  countenance  was  succeeded  by  an 
extreme  paleness — this  was  all :  he  did  not  even  leave  the  room 
immediately,  but  waited  till  the  silence  was  broken  by  some 
well-bred  member  of  the  party ;  and  then,  pleading  an  early 
engagement  as  an  excuse  for  his  retiring  so  soon,  he  rose,  and 
departed. 

There  was  throughout  the  room  an  universal  feeling  of  sympa- 
thy with  the  affront,  and  indignation  against  the  offender  ;  for, 
to  say  nothing  of  Clarence's  popularity,  and  the  extreme  dis- 
like in  which  Lord  Borodaile  was  held,  there  could  be  no  doubt 
as  to  the  wantonness  of  the  outrage,  or  the  moderation  of  the 
aggrieved  party.  Lord  Borodaile  already  felt  the  punishment 
of  his  offence  :  his  very  pride,  while  it  rendered  him  indif- 
ferent to  the  spirit,  had  hitherto  kept  him  scrupulous  as  to  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  199 

formalities,  of  social  politeness  ;  and  he  could  not  but  see  the 
grossness  with  which  he  had  suffered  himself  to  violate  them, 
and  the  light  in  which  his  conduct  was  regarded.  However, 
this  internal  discomfort  only  rendered  him  the  more  embittered 
against  Clarence,  and  the  more  confirmed  in  his  revenge. 
Resuming,  by  a  strong  effort,  all  the  external  indifference 
habitual  to  his  manner,  he  attempted  to  enter  into  a  conversa- 
tion with  those  of  the  party  who  were  next  to  him  ;  but  his 
remarks  produced  answers  brief  and  cold  :  even  Lord  Aspeden 
forgot  his  diplomacy  and  his  smile  ;  Lord  St.  George  replied 
to  his  observations  by  a  monosyllable  ;  and  the  Duke  of  Haver- 
field,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  asserted  the  prerogative  which 
his  rank  gave  him  of  setting  the  example — his  grace  did  not 
reply  to  Lord  Borodaile  at  all.  In  truth,  every  one  present 
was  seriously  displeased.  All  civilized  societies  have  a  para- 
mount interest  in  repressing  the  rude.  Nevertheless,  Lord 
Borodaile  bore  the  brunt  of  his  unpopularity  with  a  steadiness 
and  unembarrassed  composure  worthy  of  a  better  cause  ;  and 
finding,  at  last,  a  companion  disposed  to  be  loquacious  in  the 
person  of  Sir  Christopher  Findlater  (whose  good  heart,  though 
its  first  impulse  resented  more  violently  than  that  of  any  heart 
present  the  discourtesy  of  the  viscount,  yet  soon  warmed  to 
t\ie  desagrdniens  oi  his  situation,  and  hastened  to  adopt  its  favor- 
ite maxim  of  forgive  and  forget),  Lord  Borodaile  sat  the  meet- 
ing out  ;  and  if  he  did  not  leave  the  latest,  he  was,  at  least, 
not  the  first  to  follow  Clarence. — **  L'orgueil  ou  donne  lecouragCy 
ou  il  y  suppl^e."* 

Meanwhile  Linden  had  returned  to  his  solitary  home.  He 
hastened  to  his  room — locked  the  door — flung  himself  on  his 
sofa,  and  burst  into  a  violent  and  almost  feminine  paroxysm  of 
tears.  This  fit  lasted  for  more  than  an  hour ;  and  when  Clarence 
at  length  stilled  the  indignant  swellings  of  his  heart,  and  rose 
from  his  supine  position,  he  started,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the 
opposite  mirror,  so  haggard  and  exhausted  seemed  the  forced 
and  fearful  calmness  of  his  countenance.  With  a  hurried  step — 
with  arms  now  folded  on  his  bosom — now  wildly  tossed  from 
him,  and  the  hand  so  firmly  clenched  that  the  very  bones 
seemed  working  through  the  skin — with  a  brow  now  fierce,  now 
only  dejected — and  a  complexion  which  one  while  burnt  as 
with  the  crimson  flush  of  a  fever,  and  at  another  was  wan  and 
colorless,  like  his  whose  cheek  a  spectre  has  blanched — Clarence 
paced  his  apartment,  the  victim  not  only  of  shame — the  bitterest 
of  tortures  to  a  young  and  high  mind — but  of  other  contending 

*  Pride  either  gives  courage  or  supplies  the  place  of  iu 


200  THE    DISOWNED. 

feelings,  which  alternately  exasperated  and  palsied  his  wrath, 
and  gave  to  his  resolves  at  one  moment  an  almost  savage 
ferocity,  and  at  the  next  an  almost  cowardly  vacillation. 

The  clock  had  just  struck  the  hour  of  twelve,  when  a  knock 
at  the  door  announced  a  visitor.  Steps  were  heard  on  the 
stairs,  and  presently  a  tap  at  Clarence's  room  door.  He 
unlocked  it,  and  the  Duke  of  Haverfieid  entered. 

"I  am  charmed  to  find  you  at  home,"  cried  the  duke,  with 
his  usual  half  kind,  half  careless  address.  "  I  was  determined 
to  call  upon  you,  and  be  the  first  to  offer  my  services  in  this 
unpleasant  affair." 

Clarence  pressed  the  duke's  hand,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  Nothing  could  be  so  unhandsome  as  Lord  Borodaile's  con- 
duct," continued  the  duke.  *'  I  hope  you  both  fence  and  shoot 
well.  I  shall  never  forgive  you,  if  you  do  not  put  an  end  to 
that  piece  of  rigidity." 

Clarence  continued  to  walk  about  the  room  in  great  agita- 
tion ;  the  duke  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise.  At  last  Lin- 
den paused  by  the  window,  and  said,  half  unconsciously — "  It 
must  be  so — I  cannot  avoid  fighting  !  " 

"  Avoid  fighting  !  "  cried  his  grace,  in  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. "  No  indeed — but  that  is  the  least  part  of  the  matter — « 
you  must  kill  as  well  as  fight  him." 

"Kill  him!"  cried  Clarence,  wildly,  "whom!"  and  then 
sinking  into  a  chair,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  for  a 
few  moments,  and  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  emotions. 

"  Well,"  thought  the  duke,"  I  never  was  more  mistaken  in  my 
life.  I  could  have  bet  my  black  horse  against  Trevanion's  Julia, 
which  is  certainly  the  most  worthless  thing  I  know,  that  Linden 
had  been  a  brave  fellow:  but  these  English  heroes  always  go 
into  fits  at  a  duel :  one  manages  such  things,  as  Sterne  says, 
better  in  France." 

Clarence  now  rose,  calm  and  collected.  He  sat  down — • 
wrote  a  brief  note  to  Borodaile,  demanding  the  fullest  apology, 
or  the  earliest  meeting — put  it  into  the  duke's  hands  and  said, 
with  a  faint  smile,  "  My  dear  duke,  dare  I  ask  you  to  be  second 
to  a  man  who  has  been  so  grievously  affronted,  and  whose  gen- 
ealogy has  been  so  disputed  ? " 

"My  dear  Linden,"  said  the  duke  warmly,  "I  have  always 
been  grateful  to  my  station  in  life  for  this  advantage,  the  free- 
dom with  which  it  has  enabled  me  to  select  my  own  acquaint- 
ance, and  to  follow  my  own  pursuits.  I  am  now  more  grateful 
to  it  than  ever,  because  it  has  given  me  a  better  opportunity 
than  I  should  otherwise  have  had  of  serving  one  whom  I  have 


THE    DISOWNED.  20I 

always  esteemed.  In  entering  into  your  quarrel,  I  shall  at 
least  show  the  world  that  there  are  some  men,  not  inferior  in 
pretensions  to  Lord  Borodaile,  who  despise  arrogance  and 
resent  overbearance  even  to  others.  Your  cause  I  consider  the 
common  cause  of  society ;  but  I  shall  take  it  up,  if  you  will 
allow  me,  with  the  distinguishing  zeal  of  a  friend." 

Clarence,  who  was  much  affected  by  the  kindness  of  his 
speech,  replied  in  a  similar  vein  ;  and  the  duke,  having  read  and 
approved  the  letter,  rose.  "There  is,  in  my  opinion,"  said  he, 
"no  time  to  be  lost.  I  will  go  to  Borodaile  this  very  even- 
ing— adieu,  mon  cher :  you  shall  kill  the  Argus,  and  then  carry 
off  the  lo.  I  feel  in  a  double  passion  with  that  ambulating 
poker,  who  is  only  malleable  when  he  is  red-hot,  when  I  think 
how  honorably  scupulous  you  were  with  La  Meronville  last 
night,  notwithstanding  all  her  advances  ;  but  I  go  to  bury 
Caesar,  not  to  scold  him. — Au  revoir." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Conon. — You're  well  met,  Crates. 

Crates. — If  we  part  so,  Conon. — Queen  of  Corinth. 

It  was  as  might  be  expected  from  the  character  of  the 
aggressor.  Lord  Borodaile  refused  all  apology,  and  agreed 
with  avidity  to  a  speedy  rendezvous.  He  chose  pistols  (choice, 
then,  was  not  merely  nominal),  and  selected  Mr.  Percy  Bobus 
for  his  second,  a  gentleman  who  was  much  fonder  of  acting  in 
that  capacity,  than  in  the  more  honorable  one  of  a  principal. 
The  author  of  "  Lacon  "  says,  "  that  if  all  seconds  were  as 
averse  to  duels  as  their  principals,  there  would  be  very  little 
blood  spilt  in  that  way";  and  it  was  certainly  astonishing  to 
compare  the  zeal  with  which  Mr.  Bobus  busied  himself  about 
this  "affair,"  with  that  testified  by  him  on  another  occasion, 
when  he  himself  was  more  immediately  concerned. 

The  morning  came,  Bobus  breakfasted  with  his  friend. 
"  Damn  it,  Borodaile,"  said  he,  as  the  latter  was  receiving  the 
ultimate  polish  of  the  hair-dresser,  "  I  never  saw  you  look  bet- 
ter in  my  life.  It  will  be  a  great  pity  if  that  fellow  shoots 
you." 

"Shoots  w^./"said  Lord  Borodaile,  very  quietly— "wf— 
no  ! — that  is  quite  out  of  the  question  ;  but  joking  apart,  Bobus, 
I  will  not  kill  the  young  man.     Where  shall  I  hit  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  cap  of  the  knee,"  said  Mr,  Percy,  breaking  an  egg. 


202  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  Nay,  that  will  lame  him  for  life,"  said  Lord  Borodaile,  put- 
ting on  his  cravat  with  peculiar  exactitude. 

"  Serve  him  right,"  said  Mr.  Bobus.  "  Hang  him,  I  never  got 
up  so  early  in  my  life — it  is  quite  impossible  to  eat  at  this 
hour.  Oh — apropos^  Borodaile,  have  you  left  any  little  memor- 
anda for  me  to  execute  ? " 

"  Memoranda  ! — for  what  ? "  said  Borodaile,  who  had  now  just 
finished  his  toilet. 

"Oh  !  "  rejoined  Mr.  Percy  Bobus,  "in  case  of  accident,  you 
know  :  the  man  may  shoot  well,  though  I  never  saw  him  in  the 
gallery." 

"  Pray,"  said  Lord  Borodaile,  in  a  great,  though  suppressed 
passion,  "pray,  Mr.  Bobus,  how  often  have  I  to  tell  you,  that  it 
is  not  by  Mr.  Linden  that  my  days  are  to  terminate  :  you  are 
sure  that  Carabine  saw  to  that  trigger?" 

"  Certain,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  with  his  mouth  full,  "  certain — 
Bless  me,  here's  the  carriage,  and  breakfast  not  half  done 
yet." 

"Come,  come,"  cried  Borodaile,  impatiently,  "we  must 
breakfast  afterwards.  Here,  Roberts,  see  that  we  have  fresh 
chocolate,  and  some  more  cutlets,  when  we  return." 

"  I  would  rather  have  them  now,"  sighed  Mr.  Bobus,  fore- 
seeing the  possibility  of  the  return  being  single — ''''Ibis! 
redibis?''  etc. 

"  Come,  we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose,"  exclaimed  Borodaile, 
hastening  down  the  stairs  ;  and  Mr.  Percy  Bobus  followed,  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  various  regrets,  partly  for  the  breakfast 
that  was  lost,  and  partly  for  the  friend  that  might  be. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  ground,  Clarence  and  the  duke  were 
already  there  :  the  latter,  who  was  a  dead  shot,  had  fully  per- 
suaded himself  that  Clarence  was  equally  adroit,  and  had,  in  his 
providence  for  Borodaile,  brought  a  surgeon.  This  was  a  cir- 
cumstance of  which  the  viscount,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  con- 
fidence for  himself  and  indifference  for  his  opponent,  had 
never  once  dreamt. 

The  ground  was  measured — the  parties  were  about  to  take 
the  ground.  All  Linden's  former  agitation  was  vanished — his 
mien  was  firm,  grave,  and  determined,  but  he  showed  none  of 
the  careless  and  fierce  hardihood  which  characterized  his  ad- 
versary ;  on  the  contrary,  a  close  observer  might  have  re- 
marked something  sad  and  dejected  amidst  all  the  tranquillity 
and  steadiness  of  his  brow  and  air. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  whispered  the  duke,  as  he  withdrew 
from  the  spot,  "  square  your  body  a  little  more  to  your  left, 


THE    DISOWNED. 


ao3 


and  remember  your  exact  level.  Borodaile  is  much  shorter 
than  you." 

There  was  a  brief,  dead  pause — the  signal  was  given — Boro- 
daile fired — his  ball  pierced  Clarence's  side  ;  the  wounded 
man  staggered  one  step,  but  fell  not.  He  raised  his  pistol ;  the 
duke  bent  eagerly  forward ;  an  expression  of  disappointment 
and  surprise  passed  his  lips  ;  Clarence  had  fired  in  the  air. 
The  next  moment  Linden  felt  a  deadly  sickness  come  over 
him — he  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  surgeon.  Borodaile,  touched 
by  a  forbearance  which  he  had  so  Httle  right  to  expect,  has- 
tened to  the  spot.  He  leaned  over  his  adversary  in  greater 
remorse  and  pity  than  he  would  have  readily  confessed  to  him- 
self. Clarence  unclosed  his  eyes  ;  they  dwelt  for  one  moment 
upon  the  subdued  and  earnest  countenance  of  Borodaile. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  said  faintly,  "  that  you  were  not  the  vic- 
tim," and  with  those  words  he  fell  back  insensible.  They  car- 
ried him  to  his  lodgings.  His  wound  was  accurately  examined. 
Though  not  mortal,  it  was  of  a  dangerous  nature  ;  and  the  sur- 
geons ended  a  very  painful  operation,  by  promising  a  very  lin- 
gering recovery. 

What  a  charming  satisfaction  for  being  insulted  ! 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

"Je  me  contente  de  ce  qui  peut  s'ecrire,  et  je  reve  tout  ce  qui  peut  se 
rever.*— De  Sevig.ne. 

About  a  week  after  his  wound,  and  the  second  morning  of 
his  return  to  sense  and  consciousness,  when  Clarence  opened  his 
eyes,  they  fell  upon  a  female  form  seated  watchfully  and  anx- 
iously by  his  bedside.  He  raised  himself  in  mute  surprise,  and 
the  figure,  startled  by  the  motion,  rose,  drew  the  curtain,  and 
vanished.  With  great  difficulty  he  rang  his  bell.  His  valet, 
Harrison,  on  whose  mind,  though  it  was  of  no  very  exalted 
order,  the  kindness  and  suavity  of  his  master  had  made  a  great 
impression,  instantly  appeared. 

"  Who  was  that  lady  ?  "  asked  Linden.  *'  How  came  she 
here  ? " 

Harrison  smiled — "  Oh,  sir,  pray  please  to  lie  down,  and 
make  yourself  easy  :  the  lady  knows  you  very  well,  and  would 
come  here  :  she  insists  upon  staying  in  the  house,  so  we  made 
up  a  bed  in  the  drawing-room,  and  she  has  watched  by  you 

♦  I  content  myself  with  writing  what  I  am  able,  and  I  dream  all  I  powbly  cwi  <lre«ift 


204  THE   DISOWNED. 

night  and  day.  She  speaks  very  little  English  to  be  sure,  but 
your  honor  knows,  begging  your  pardon,  how  well  I  speak 
French." 

"  French  !  "  said  Clarence  faintly — "  French  ?  In  Heaven's 
name,  who  is  she  ?" 

"  A  Madame — Madame — La  Melonveal,  or  some  such  name, 
sir,"  said  the  valet. 

Clarence  fell  back. — At  that  moment  his  hand  was  pressed. 
He  turned  and  saw  Talbot  by  his  side.  The  kind  old  man  had 
not  suffered  La  Meronville  to  be  Linden's  only  nurse — notwith- 
standing his  age  and  peculiarity  of  habits,  he  had  fixed  his 
abode  all  the  day  in  Clarence's  house,  and  at  night,  instead  of 
returning  to  his  own  home,  had  taken  up  his  lodgings  at  the 
nearest  hotel. 

With  a  jealous  and  anxious  eye  to  the  real  interest  and  re- 
spectability of  his  adopted  son,  Talbot  had  exerted  all  his 
address,  and  even  all  his  power,  to  induce  La  Meronville,  who 
had  made  her  settlement  previous  to  Talbot's,  to  quit  the 
house,  but  in  vain.  With  that  obstinacy  which  a  French- 
woman, when  she  is  sentimental,  mistakes  for  nobility  of  heart, 
the  ci-devant  amanteoi  Lord  Borodaile  insisted  upon  watching 
and  tending  one  of  whose  sufferings,  she  said  and  believed,  she 
Avas  the  unhappy,  though  innocent  cause ;  and  whenever  more 
urgent  means  of  removal  were  hinted  at,  La.  Meronville  flew  to 
the  chamber  of  her  beloved,  apostrophized  him  in  a  strain 
worthy  of  one  of  D'Arlincourt's  heroines,  and,  in  short,  was  so 
unreasonably  outrageous,  that  the  doctors,  trembling  for  the; 
safety  of  their  patient,  obtained  from  Talbot  a  forced  and 
reluctant  acquiescence  in  the  settlement  she  had  obtained. 

Ah  !  what  a  terrible  creature  a  Frenchwoman  is,  when,  in- 
stead of  coquetting  with  a  caprice,  ^ht  insists  upon  conceiving  a 
grande  passion.  Little,  however,  did  Clarence,  despite  his  vex- 
ation when  he  learnt  of  the  bienveillance  of  La  Meronville, 
foresee  the  whole  extent  of  the  consequences  it  would  entail 
upon  him  ;  still  less  did  Talbot,  who  in  his  seclusion  knew  not 
the  celebrity  of  the  handsome  adventuress,  calculate  upon  the 
notoriety  of  her  motions,  or  the  ill  effect  her  ostentatious 
attachment  would  have  upon  Clarence's  prosperity  as  a  lover 
to  Lady  Flora.  In  order  to  explain  these  consequences  more 
fully,  let  us,  for  the  present,  leave  our  hero  to  the  care  of  the 
surgeon,  his  friends,  and  his  would-be  mistress  ;  and  while  he 
is  more  rapidly  recovering  than  the  doctors  either  hoped  or 
presaged,  let  us  renew  our  acquaintance  with  a  certain  fair 
correspondent 


THE   DISOWNED. 


205 


LETTER  FROM   THE   LADY    FLORA  ARDENNE,    TO    MISS   ELEANOR 
TREVANION. 

"  My  DEAREST  Eleanor  ; 

"  I  have  been  very  ill,  or  you  would  sooner  have  received  an 
answer  to  your  kind — too  kind  and  consoling  letter.  Indeed, 
I  have  only  just  left  ray  bed  :  they  say  that  I  have  been  de- 
lirious, and  I  believe  it ;  for  you  cannot  conceive  what  terrible 
dreams  I  have  had.  But  these  are  all  over  now,  and  every  one 
is  so  kind  to  me — my  poor  mother  above  all  !  It  is  a  pleasant 
thing  to  be  ill  when  we  have  those  who  love  us  to  watch  our 
recovery. 

"  I  have  only  been  in  bed  a  few  days  ;  yet  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  a  long  portion  of  my  existence  were  past — as  if  I  had  stepped 
into  a  new  era.  You  remember  that  my  last  letter  attempted 
to  express  ray  feelings  at  mamma's  speech  about  Clarence,  and 
at  my  seeing  him  so  suddenly.  Now,  dearest,  I  cannot  but 
look  on  that  day,  on  these  sensations,  as  on  a  distant  dream. 
Every  one  is  so  kind  to  rae,  mamma  caresses  and  soothes  me  so 
fondly,  that  I  fancy  I  must  have  been  under  some  illusion.  I 
am  sure  they  could  not  seriously  have  meant  to  forbid  his  ad- 
dresses. No,  no  :  I  feel  that  all  will  yet  be  well — so  well,  that 
even  you,  who  are  of  so  contented  a  temper,  will  own,  that  if 
you  were  not  Eleanor  you  would  be  Flora, 

"I  wonder  whether  Clarence  knows  that  I  have  been  ill.  I 
wish  you  knew  him. — Well,  dearest,  this  letter — a  very  unhand- 
sorae  return,  I  own,  for  yours — must  content  you  at  present, 
for  they  will  not  let  me  write  more — though,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I  am  never  so  weak,  in  frame  I  mean,  but  what  I  could 
scribble  to  j-^jw  about  ^m.     Addio — carissima.     F.  A. 

"  I  have  prevailed  on  mamma,  who  wished  to  sit  by  me  and 
amuse  me,  to  go  to  the  Opera  to-night,  the  only  amusement  of 
which  she  is  particularly  fond.  Heaven  forgive  me  for  my 
insincerity,  but  he  always  comes  into  our  box,  and  I  long  to  hear 
some  news  of  him." 

LETTER  II. 
FROM   THE   SAME  TO   THE  SAME. 

"Eleanor,  dearest  Eleanor,  I  am  again  very  ill,  but  not  as 
I  was  before,  ill  from  a  foolish  vexation  of  mind:  no,  I  am 
now  calm,  and  even  happy.  It  was  from  an  increase  of  cold 
only  that  I  have  suffered  a  relapse.  You  may  believe  this,  I 
assure  you,  in  spite  of  vour  well-meant  but  bitter  jests  upon  my 
infatuation,  as  you  very  rightly  call   it,  for  Mr.  Linden.     You 


2o6  THE   DISOWNED. 

ask  me  what  news  from  the  Opera  ?  Silly  girl  that  I  was,  to  He 
awake  hour  after  hour,  and  refuse  even  to  take  my  draught, 
lest  I  should  be  surprised  into  sleep,  till  mamma  returned.  I 
sent  Jermyn  down  directly  I  heard  her  knock  at  the  door  (oh, 
how  anxiously  I  had  listened  for  it  !),  to  say  that  I  was  still 
awake  and  longed  to  see  her.  So,  of  course,  mamma  came  up, 
and  felt  my  pulse,  and  said  it  was  very  feverish,  and  wondered 
the  draught  had  not  composed  me — with  a  great  deal  more  to 
the  same  purpose,  which  I  bore  as  patiently  as  I  could  till  it 
was  my  turn  to  talk  ;  and  then  I  admired  her  dress  and  her 
coiffure,  and  asked  if  it  was  a  full  house,  and  whether  iheprima 
donna  was  in  voice,  etc.,  etc.  :  till,  at  last,  I  won  my  way  to  the 
inquiry  of  Avho  were  her  visitors.  'Lord  Borodaile,'  said  she, 
'  and  the  Duke  of ,  and  Mr.  St.  George,  and  Captain  Les- 
lie, and  Mr.  De  Retz,  and  many  others.'  I  felt  so  disappointed, 
Eleanor,  but  did  not  dare  ask  whether  he  was  not  of  the  list  ; 
till  at  last,  my  mother,  observing  me  narrowly,  said — '  And,  by- 
the-by,  Mr.  Linden  looked  in  for  a  few  minutes.  I  am  glad, 
my  dearest  Flora,  that  I  spoke  to  you  so  decidedly  about  him 
the  other  day.'  '  Why,  mamma?'  said  I,  hiding  my  face  under 
the  clothes.  *  Because,*  said  she,  in  rather  a  raised  voice,  'he 
is  quite  unworthy  of  you  ! — but  it  is  late  now,  and  you  should 
go  to  sleep — to-morrow  I  will  tell  you  more.'  I  would  have 
given  worlds  to  press  the  question  then,  but  could  not  venture. 
Mamma  kissed  and  left  me.  I  tried  to  twist  her  words  into  a 
hundred  meanings,  but  in  each  I  only  thought  that  they  were 
dictated  by  some  worldly  information — some  new  doubts  as  to 
his  birth  or  fortune  ;  and,  though  that  supposition  distressed 
me  greatly,  yet  it  could  not  alter  my  love,  or  deprive  me  of 
hope  ;  and  so  I  cried,  and  guessed,  and  guessed,  and  cried,  till 
at  last  I  cried  myself  to  sleep. 

"When  I  awoke,  mamma  was  already  up,  and  sitting  beside 
me  :  she  talked  to  me  for  more  than  an  hour  upon  ordinary 
subjects,  till,  at  last,  perceiving  how  absent  or  rather  impatient 
I  appeared,  she  dismissed  Jermyn,  and  spoke  to  me  thus  : 

You  know,  Flora,  that  I  have  always  loved  you,  more  per- 
haps than  1  ought  to  have  done,  more  certainly  than  I  have 
loved  your  brothers  and  sisters  ;  but  you  were  my  eldest  child, 
my  first-born,  and  all  the  earliest  associations  of  a  mother  are 
blent  and  entwined  with  you.  You  may  be  sure,  therefore,  that: 
I  have  ever  had  only  your  happiness  in  view,  and  that  it  is  only 
with  a  regard  to  that  end  that  I  now  speak  to  you.' 

"I  was  a  little  frightened,  Eleanor,  by  this  opening,  but  I  was 
much  more  touched,  so  I  took  mamma's  hand  and  kissed,  and 


THE   DISOWNED.  467 

wept  silently  over  it  ;  she  continued  :  *I  observed  Mr.  Lin- 
den's attention   to   you,  at ;  I  knew  nothing  more  of  his 

rank  and  birth  then,  than  I  do  at  present :  but  his  situation  in 
the  embassy,  and  his  personal  appearance,  naturally  induced 
me  to  suppose  him  a  gentleman  of  family,  and,  therefore,  if  not 
a  great,  at  least  not  an  inferior  match  for  you,  so  far  as  worldly 
distinctions  are  concerned.  Added  to  this,  he  was  uncommonly 
handsome,  and  had  that  general  reputation  for  talent  which  is 
often  better  than  actual  wealth  or  hereditary  titles.  I  therefore 
did  not  check,  though  I  would  not  encourage,  any  attachment 
you  might  form  for  him  ;  and  nothing  being  declared  or  de- 
cisive on  either  side  when  we  left ,  I  imagined  that  if  your 

flirtation  with  him  did  even  amount  to  a  momentary  and  girlish 
phantasy,  absence  and  change  of  scene  would  easily  and  rapidly 
efface  the  impression.  I  believe  that  in  a  great  measure  it  was 
effaced,  when  Lord  Aspeden  returned  to  England,  and  with 
him  Mr.  Linden.  You  again  met  the  latter  in  society  almost 
as  constantly  as  before  ;  a  caprice  nearly  conquered  was  once 
more  renewed  ;  and  in  my  anxiety  that  you  should  marry,  not 
for  aggrandizement,  but  happiness,  I  own  to  my  sorrow  that  I 
rather  favored  than  forbade  his  addresses.  The  young  man — 
remember  Flora — appeared  in  society  as  the  nephew  and  heir 
of  a  gentleman  of  ancient  family  and  considerable  property  ; 
he  was  rising  in  diplomacy,  popular  in  the  world,  and,  so  far  as 
we  could  see,  of  irreproachable  character  ;  this  must  plead  my 
excuse  for  tolerating  his  visits,  without  instituting  further  in- 
quiries respecting  him,  and  allowing  your  attachment  to  pro- 
ceed without  ascertaining  how  far  it  had  yet  extended.  I  was 
awakened  to  a  sense  of  my  indiscretion,  by  an  inquiry',  which 
Mr.  Linden's  popularity  rendered  general, — viz  :  if  Mr.  Talbot 
was  his  uncle — who  was  his  father — who  his  more  immediate 
relations  ?  and  at  that  time  Lord  Borodaile  informed  us  of  the 
falsehood  he  had  either  asserted  or  allowed  to  be  spread,  in 
claiming  Mr.  Talbot  as  his  relation.  This  you  will  observe  en- 
tirely altered  the  situation  of  Mr.  Linden  with  respect  to  you. 
Not  only  his  rank  in  life  became  uncertain,  but  suspicious. 
Nor  was  this  all :  his  very  personal  respectability  was  no  longer 
unimpeachable.  Was  this  dubious  and  intrusive  person,  without 
aname,  and  with  a  sullied  honor,  to  beyour  suitor  ?  No,  Flora; 
and  it  was  from  this  indignant  conviction  that  I  spoke  to  you 
some  days  since.  Forgive  me,  my  child,  if  I  was  less  cautious, 
less  confidential  than  I  am  now.  I  did  not  imagine  the  wound 
was  so  deep,  and  thought  that  I  should  best  cure  you  by  seeming 
unconscious  of  your  danger.     The  case  is  now  changed  ;  your 


2oS  THE  DISOWKED. 

illness  has  convinced  me  of  my  fault,  and  the  extent  of  yoiil' 
unhappy  attachment ;  but  will  my  own  dear  child  pardon  me 
if  I  still  continue,  if  I  even  confirm,  my  disapproval  of  her 
choice  ?  Last  night  at  the  Opera  Mr.  Linden  entered  my  box. 
I  own  that  I  was  cooler  to  him  than  usual.  He  soon  left  us, 
and  after  the  Opera  I  saw  him  with  the  Duke  of  Haverfield, 
one  of  the  most  incorrigible  roue's  of  the  day,  leading  out  a 
woman  of  notoriously  bad  character,  and  of  the  most  ostenta- 
tious profligacy.  He  might  have  had  some  propriety,  some 
decency,  some  concealment  at  least,  but  he  passed  just  before 
me — before  the  mother  of  the  woman  to  whom  his  vows  of 
honorable  attachment  were  due,  and  who  at  that  very  instant 
was  suffering  from  her  infatuation  for  him.  Now  Flora,  for 
this  man,  an  obscure  and  possibly  a  plebeian  adventurer — 
whose  only  claim  to  notice  has  been  founded  on  falsehood — 
whose  only  merit,  a  love  of  you,  has  been,  if  not  utterly  de- 
stroyed, at  least  polluted  and  debased — for  this  man,  poor  alike 
in  fortune,  character,  and  honor,  can  you  any  longer  profess 
affection  or  esteem  ! ' 

" '  Never,  never,  never  ! '  cried  I,  springing  from  the  bed, 
and  throwing  myself  upon  my  mother's  neck.  '  Never ;  I  am 
your  own  Flora  once  more.  1  will  never  suffer  any  one  again 
to  make  me  forget  you,' — and  then  I  sobbed  so  violently  that 
mamma  was  frightened,  and  made  me  lie  down,  and  left  me  to 
sleep.  Several  hours  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  could  not 
sleep  nor  think,  and  I  would  not  cry,  for  he  is  no  longer  wor- 
thy of  my  tears  ;  so  I  have  written  to  you. 

"Oh  how  I  despise  and  hate  myself  for  having  so  utterly,  in 
my  vanity  and  folly,  forgotten  my  mother,  that  Jear,  kind, 
constant  friend,  who  never  cost  me  a  single  tear,  but  for  my 
own  ingratitude.  Think,  Eleanor,  what  an  affront  to  me — to 
me,  who,  he  so  often  said,  had  made  all  other  women  worthless 
in  his  eyes.  Do  I  hate  him  ?  No,  I  cannot  hate.  Do  I  de- 
spise ?  No,  I  will  not  despise,  but  I  will  forget  him,  and  keep 
my  contempt  and  hatred  for  myself. 

"God  bless  you — I  am  worn  out.  Write  soon,  or  rather 
come,  if  possible,  to  your  affectionate  but  unworthy  friend, 

"F.  A. 

"Good  Heavens  !  Eleanor,  he  is  wounded.  He  has  fought 
with  Lord  Borodaile.  I  have  just  heard  it ;  Jermyn  told  me. 
Can  it,  can  it  be  true  ?  What — what  have  I  said  against  him  ? 
Hate  ! — forget?     No,  no  :  I  never  loved  him  till  now." 


LETTER  III. 
FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 
(After  an  interval  of  several  weeks.) 

"  Time  has  flown,  my  Eleanor,  since  you  left  me,  after  your 
short  but  kind  visit,  with  a  heavy  but  healing  wing.  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  ever  again  be  the  giddy  girl  I  have  been  ;  but  my 
head  will  change,  not  my  heart ;  that  was  never  giddy,  and 
that  shall  still  be  as  much  yours  as  ever.  You  are  wrong  in 
thinking  I  have  not  forgotten,  at  least  renounced  al  laffection  for, 
Mr.  Linden.  I  have,  though  with  a  long  and  bitter  effort. 
The  woman  for  whom  he  fought  went,  you  know,  to  his  house, 
immediately  on  hearing  of  his  wound.  She  has  continued 
with  him  ever  since.  He  had  the  audacity  to  write  to  me 
once ;  my  mother  brought  me  the  note,  and  said  nothing.  She 
read  my  heart  aright.  I  returned  it  unopened.  He  has  even 
called  since  his  convalescence.  Mamma  was  not  at  home  to  him. 
I  hear  that  he  looks  pale  and  altered.  I  hope  not — at  least  I 
cannot  resist  praying  for  his  recovery.  I  stay  within  entirely ; 
the  season  is  now  over,  and  there  are  no  parties  :  but  I  trem- 
ble at  the  thought  of  meeting  him  even  in  the  Park  or  the 
Gardens.  Papa  talks  of  going  into  the  country  next  week.  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  eagerly  I  look  forward  to  it ;  and 
you  will  then  come  and  see  me — will  you  not,  dearest 
Eleanor? 

"  Ah  !  what  happy  days  we  will  have  yet ;  we  will  read  Ital- 
ian together,  as  we  used  to  do  ;  you  shall  teach  me  your  songs, 
and  I  will  instruct  you  in  mine  ;  we  will  keep  birds  as  we  did — 
let  me  see — eight  years  ago.  You  will  never  talk  to  me  of  my 
folly :  let  that  be  as  if  it  had  never  been ;  but  I  will  wonder 
with  you  about  your  future  choice,  and  grow  happy  in  antici- 
pating your  happiness.  Oh,  how  selfish  I  was  some  weeks 
ago — then  I  could  only  overwhelm  you  with  my  egotisms ; 
now,  Eleanor,  it  is  your  turn,  and  you  shall  see  how  patiently 
I  will  listen  to  yours.  Never  fear  that  you  can  be  too  prolix  ; 
the  diffuser  you  are,  the  easier  I  shall  forgive  myself. 

"Are  vou  fond  of  poetry,  Eleanor?  I  used  to  say  so,  but  I 
never  felt  that  I  was  till  lately.  I  will  show  you  my  favorite 
passages  in  my  favorite  poets  when  you  come  to  see  me.  You 
shall  see  if  yours  correspond  with  mine.  I  am  so  impatient  to 
leave  this  horrid  town,  where  everything  seems  dull,  yet  fever- 
ish—insipid, yet  false.     Shall  we  not  be  happy  when  we  meet? 


2 to  THE   DISOWNED. 

If  your  dear  aunt  will  come  with  you,  she  shall  see  how  I  (that 
is,  my  mind)  am  improved. 
"  Farewell. 

"  Ever  your  most  affectionate, 

"F.  A.- 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 
'*  Brave  Talbot,  we  will  follow  thee." — Henry  the  Sixth. 

"  My  letter  insultingly  returned — myself  refused  admittance 
■ — not  a  single  inquiry  made  during  my  illness — indifference 
joined  to  positive  contempt.     By  Heaven,  it  is  insupportable  !" 

"  My  dear  Clarence,"  said  Talbot,  to  his  young  friend,  who, 
fretful  from  pain,  and  writhing  beneath  his  mortification,  walked 
to  and  fro  his  chamber  with  an  impatient  stride ;  "  my  dear 
Clarence,  do  sit  down,  and  not  irritate  your  wound  by  such 
violent  exercise.  I  am  as  much  enraged  as  yourself  at  the 
treatment  you  have  received,  and  no  less  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  it.  Your  duel,  however  unfortunate  the  event,  must  have 
done  you  credit,  and  obtained  you  a  reputation  both  for  gener- 
osity and  spirit ;  so  that  it  cannot  be  to  that  occurrence  that  you 
are  to  attribute  the  change.  Let  us  rather  suppose  that  Lady 
Flora's  attachment  to  you  has  become  evident  to  her  father  and 
mother — that  they  naturally  think  it  would  be  very  undesirable 
to  marry  their  daughter  to  a  man  whose  family  nobody  knows, 
and  whose  respectability  he  is  forced  into  fighting  in  order  to 
support.  Suffer  me  then  to  call  on  Lady  Westborough,  whom 
I  knew  many  years  ago,  and  explain  your  origin,  as  well  as 
your  relationship  to  me." 

Linden  paused  irresolutely. 

"  Were  I  sure  that  Lady  Flora  was  not  utterly  influenced 
by  her  mother's  worldly  views,  I  would  gladly  consent  to  your 
proposal — but — " 

"  Forgive  me,  Clarence,"  cried  Talbot ;  "  but  you  really  ar- 
gue much  more  like  a  very  young  man  than  I  ever  heard  you 
do  before — even  four  years  ago.  To  be  sure  Lady  Flora  is  influ- 
enced by  her  mother's  views.  Would  you  have  her  otherwise? 
Would  you  have  her,  in  defiance  of  all  propriety,  modesty, 
obedience  to  her  parents,  and  right  feeling  for  herself,  encour- 
age an  attachment  to  a  person  not  only  unknown,  but  who  does 
not  even  condescend  to  throw  off  the  incognito  to  the  woman 
he  addresses  ?  Come,  Clarence,  give  me  my  instructions,  and 
let  me  act  as  your  ambassador  to-morrow." 


THE   DISOWNED.  aH 

Clarence  was  silent. 

"I  may  consider  it  settled  then,"  replied  Talbot :" mean- 
while you  shall  come  home  and  stay  with  me  :  the  pure  air  of 
the  country,  even  so  near  town,  will  do  you  more  good  than  all 
the  doctors  in  London  ;  and,  besides,  you  will  thus  be  enabled 
to  escape  from  that  persecuting  Frenchwoman." 

"  In  what  manner  ?  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Why,  when  you  are  in  my  house,  she  cannot  well  take  up 
her  abode  with  you  ;  and  you  shall,  while  I  am  forwarding 
your  suit  with  Lady  Flora,  write  a  very  flattering,  very  grateful 
letter  of  excuses  to  Madame  la  Meronville.  But  leave  me 
alone  to  draw  it  up  for  you  ;  meanwhile,  let  Harrison  pack  up 
your  clothes  and  medicines,  and  we  will  effect  our  escape  while 
Madame  la  Meronville  yet  sleeps." 

Clarence  rung  the  bell ;  the  orders  were  given,  executed,  and 
in  less  than  an  hour  he  and  his  friend  were  on  their  road  to 
Talbot's  villa. 

As  they  drove  slowly  through  the  grounds  to  the  house,  Clar- 
ence was  sensibly  struck  with  the  quiet  and  stillness  which 
breathed  around.  On  either  side  of  the  road  the  honeysuckle 
and  the  rose  cast  their  sweet  scents  to  the  summer  wind,  which, 
though  it  was  scarcely  noon,  stirred  freshly  among  the  trees, 
and  waved,  as  if  it  breathed  a  second  youth  over  the  wan  cheek 
of  the  convalescent.  The  old  servant's  ear  had  caught  the 
sound  of  wheels,  and  he  came  to  the  door,  with  an  expression 
of  quiet  delight  on  his  dry  countenance,  to  welcome  in  hismas- 
ter.  They  had  lived  together  for  so  many  years,  that  they  were 
grown  like  one  another.  Indeed,  the  veteran  valet  prided  him- 
self on  his  happy  adoption  of  his  master's  dress  and  manner. 
A  proud  man,  we  ween,  was  that  domestic,  whenever  he  had 
time  and  listeners  for  the  indulgence  of  his  honest  loquacity  ; 
many  an  ancient  tale  of  his  master's  former  glories  was  then 
poured  from  his  unburthening  remembrance.  With  what  a 
glow,  with  what  a  racy  enjoyment  did  he  expand  upon  the 
triumphs  of  the  past;  how  eloquently  did  he  particularize  the 
exact  grace  with  which  young  Mr.  Talbot  was  wont  to  enter 
the  room,  in  which  he  instantly  became  the  cynosure  of  ladies' 
eyes;  how  faithfully  did  he  minute  the  courtly  dress,  the 
exquisite  choice  of  color,  the  costly  splendor  of  material, 
which  were  the  envy  of  gentles,  and  the  despairing  wonder 
of  their  valets  ;  and  then  the  zest  with  which  the  good  old  man 
would  cry — "  I  dressed  the  boy  !  "  Even  still,  this  modern 
Scipio  (Le  Sage's  Scipio,  not  Rome's)  would  not  believe  that  his 
master's  sun  was  utterly  set :  he  was  only  in  a  temporary  retire- 


812  THE    DISOWNED. 

ment,  and  would,  one  day  or  other,  reappear  and  reastonish 
the  London  world.  "  I  would  give  my  right  arm,"  Jasper  was 
wont  to  say,  "  to  see  master  at  court.  How  fond  the  king 
would  be  of  him. — Ah  !  well,  well  ;  I  wish  he  was  not  so  mel- 
ancholy like  with  his  books,  but  would  go  out  like  other  people  !  " 

Poor  Jasper  !  Time  is,  in  general,  a  harsh  wizard  in  his 
transformations  ;  but  the  change  which  thou  didst  lament  so 
bitterly,  was  happier  for  thy  master  than  all  his  former  "palmy 
state"  of  admiration  and  homage.  ^^ Nous  avons  rechercJie  le 
platstr,"  says  Rousseau,  in  one  of  his  own  inimitable  antitheses, 
'' er  le  bonheiir  a  fui  loin  de  nous."*  But  in  the  pursuit  of 
Pleasure  we  sometimes  chance  on  Wisdom,  and  Wisdom  leads 
us  to  the  right  track,  which,  if  it  takes  us  not  so  far  as  Happi- 
ness, is  sure  at  least  of  the  shelter  of  Content. 

Talbot  leant  kindly  upon  Jasper's  arm  as  he  descended  from 
the  carriage,  and  inquired  into  his  servant's  rheum.atism  with 
the  anxiety  of  a  friend.  The  old  housekeeper,  waiting  in  the 
hall,  next  received  his  attention  ;  and  in  entering  the  drawing- 
room,  with  that  consideration,  even  to  animals,  which  his 
worldly  benevolence  had  taught  him,  he  paused  to  notice  and 
caress  a  large  gray  cat  which  rubbed  herself  against  his  legs. 
Doubtless  there  is  some  pleasure  in  making  even  a  gray  cat 
happy  ; 

Clarence  having  patiently  undergone  all  the  shrugs,  and 
sighs,  and  exclamations  of  compassion  at  his  reduced  and  wan 
appearance,  which  are  the  especial  prerogatives  of  ancient  do- 
mestics, followed  the  old  man  into  the  room.  Papers  and 
books,  though  carefully  dusted,  were  left  scrupulously  in  the 
places  in  which  Talbot  had  last  deposited  them  (incompara- 
ble good  fortune  !  what  would  we  not  give  for  such  chamber 
hand-maidens  !) — fresh  flowers  were  in  the  stands  and  vases  ; 
the  large  library  chair  was  jealously  set  in  its  accustomed  place, 
and  all  wore,  to  Talbot's  eyes,  that  cheerful  yet  sober  look 
of  welcome  and  familiarity  which  makes  a  friend  of  oui 
house. 

The  old  man  was  in  high  spirits  : 

"  I  know  not  how  it  is,"  said  he,  "  but  I  feel  younger  than 
ever  !  You  have  often  expressed  a  wish  to  see  my  family  seat 
at  Scarsdale  ;  it  is  certainly  a  great  distance  hence  ;  but  as  you 
will  be  my  travelling  companion,  I  think  I  will  try  and  crawl 
there  before  the  summer  is  over;  or,  what  say  you,  Clarence, 
shall  I  lend  it  to  you  and  Lady  Flora  for  the  honeymoon  ? — 
You   blush  ! — A  diplomatist  blush ! — Ah,  how  the  world  has 

♦  W?  have  pursued  pleasure,  and  happiness  has  fled  far  from  our  reach. 


THE   DISOWNED.  313. 

ch^inged  since  my  time  !  But  come,  Clarence,  suppose  you 
write  to  La  Meronville?" 

"  Not  to-day,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said  Linden,  "  I  feel  so  very 
weak." 

"As  you  please,  Clarence  ;  but  some  years  hence  you  will 
learn  the  value  of  the  present.  Youth  is  always  a  procrasti- 
nator,  and,  consequently,  always  penitent."  And  thus  Talbot 
ran  on  into  a  strain  of  conversation,  half  serious,  half  gay, 
which  lasted  till  Clarence  went  upstairs  to  lie  down  and  muse 
on  Lady  Flora  Ardenne. 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

"  La  vie  est  un  sommeil. — Les  vieillards  sont  ceux  dont  le  sommeila  ^t^ 
plus  long  :  ils  ne  commencent  i^  se  reveiller  que  quand  il  faut  mourir."  ♦ — 
La  Bruyere. 

"You  wonder  why  I  have  never  turned  author,  with  my  con- 
stant love  of  literature,  and  my  former  desire  of  fame,"  said 
Talbot,  as  he  and  Clarence  sate  alone  after  dinner,  "  discussing 
many  things  "  :  "  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  often  intended  it,  and  as 
often  been  frightened  from  my  design.  Those  terrible  feuds — 
those  vehement  disputes — those  recriminations  of  abuse,  so 
inseparable  from  literary  life,  appear  to  me  too  dreadful  for  a 
man  not  utterly  hardened  or  malevolent  voluntarily  to  encounter. 
Good  heavens  !  what  acerbity  sours  the  blood  of  an  author  ! 
The  manifestoes  of  opposing  generals,  advancing  to  pillage,  to 
burn,  to  destroy,  contain  not  a  tithe  of  the  ferocity  which 
animates  the  pages  of  literary  controversialists  !  No  term  of 
reproach  is  too  severe,  no  vituperation  too  excessive  ! — the 
blackest  passions,  the  bitterest,  the  meanest  malice,  pour  caustic 
and  poison  upon  every  page  !  It  seems  as  if  the  greatest 
talent,  the  most  elaborate  knowledge,  only  sprung  from  the 
weakest  and  worst  regulated  mind,  as  e.xotics  from  dung.  The 
private  records,  the  public  works  of  men  of  letters,  teem  with 
an  immitigable  fury  !  Their  histories  might  all  be  reduced 
into  these  sentences-^they  were  born — they  quarrelled — they 
died  !  " 

"But,"  said  Clarence,  "it  would  matter  little  to  the  world  if 
these  quarrels  were  confined  merely  to  poets  and  men  of 
imaginative  literature,  in  whom  irritability  is  perhaps  almost 

♦  Life  is  a  sleep— the  aged  are  those  whose  sleep  has  been  the  longest ;  they  begin  t9 
jiwajc?n  ijicmselves  just  as  they  are  obliged  to  die. 


214  THE    DISOWNED. 

necessarily  allied  to  the  keen  and  quick  susceptibilities  which 
constitute  their  genius.  These  are  more  to  be  lamented  and 
wondered  at  among  philosophers,  theologians,  and  men  of 
science  ;  the  coolness,  the  patience,  the  benevolence,  which 
ought  to  characterize  their  M'orks,  should  at  least  moderate  their 
jealousy  and  soften  their  disputes." 

'*  Ah  !  "  said  Talbot,  "but  the  vanity  of  discovery  is  no  less 
acute  than  that  of  creation  :  the  self-love  of  a  philospher  is 
no  less  self-love  than  that  of  a  poet.  Besides,  those  sects  the 
most  sure  of  their  opinions,  whether  in  religion  or  science,  are 
always  the  most  bigoted  and  persecuting.  Moreover,  nearly 
all  men  deceive  themselves  in  disputes,  and  imagine  that  they 
are  intolerant,  not  through  private  jealousy,  but  public  benevo- 
lence ;  they  never  declaim  against  the  injustice  done  to 
themselves — no,  it  is  the  terrible  injury  do7je  to  society  which 
grieves  and  inflames  them.  It  is  not  the  bitter  expressions 
against  their  dogmas  which  give  them  pain  :  by  no  means ; 
it  is  the  atrocious  doctrines — so  prejudicial  to  the  country,  if 
in  politics — so  pernicious  to  the  world,  if  in  philosophy — 
which  their  duty,  not  their  vanity,  induces  them  to  denounce 
and  anathematize." 

**  There  seems,"  said  Clarence,  "  to  be  a  sort  of  reaction  in 
sophistry  and  hypocrisy ;  there  has,  perhaps,  never  been  a 
deceiver  who  was  not,  by  his  own  passions,  himself  the 
deceived." 

"  Very  true,"  said  Talbot,  "  and  it  is  a  pity  that  historians 
have  not  kept  that  fact  in  view ;  we  should  then  have  had  a 
better  notion  of  the  Cromwells  and  Mahomets  of  the  past  than 
we  have  now,  nor  judged  those  as  utter  impostors  who  were 
probably  half  dupes.  But  to  return  to  myself.  I  think  you 
will  be  already  able  to  answer  your  own  question,  why  did  I 
not  turn  author,  now  that  we  have  given  a  momentary  considera- 
tion to  the  penalties  consequent  on  such  a  profession.  But  in 
truth,  as  I  near  the  close  of  my  life,  I  often  regret  that  I  had 
not  more  courage,  for  there  is  in  us  all  a  certain  restlessness  in 
the  persuasion,  whether  true  or  false,  of  superior  knowledge  or 
intellect,  and  this  urges  us  on  to  the  proof :  or,  if  we  resist  its 
impulse,  renders  us  discontented  with  our  idleness,  and  dis- 
appointed with  the  past.  I  have  everything  now  in  my 
possession  which  it  has  been  the  desire  of  my  later  years  to 
enjoy  :  health,  retirement,  successful  study,  and  the  affection 
of  one  in  whose  breast,  when  I  am  gone,  my  memory  will  not 
utterly  pass  away.  With  these  advantages,  added  to  the  gifts 
of  fortune,  and  an  habitual   elasticity  of  spirit,  I   confess  that 


THE  DISOWNED.  atg 

my  happiness  is  not  free  from  a  biting  and  frequent  regret :  I 
would  fain  have  been  a  better  citizen  ;  I  would  fain  have  died 
in  the  consciousness,  not  only  that  I  had  improved  my  mind  to 
the  utmost,  but  that  I  had  turned  that  improvement  to  the 
benefit  of  my  fellow-creatures.  As  it  is,  in  living  wholly  for 
myself,  I  feel  that  my  philosophy  has  wanted  generosity  ;  and 
my  indifference  to  glory  has  proceeded  from  a  weakness,  not, 
as  I  once  persuaded  myself,  from  a  virtue  ;  but  the  fruitless- 
ness  of  my  existence  has  been  the  consequence  of  the  arduous 
frivolities  and  the  petty  objects  in  which  my  early  years  were 
consumed  ;  and  my  mind,  in  losing  the  enjoyments  which  it 
formerly  possessed,  had  no  longer  the  vigor  to  create  for  itself 
a  new  soil,  from  which  labor  it  could  only  hope  for  more 
valuable  fruits.  It  is  no  contradiction  to  see  those  who  eagerly 
courted  society  in  their  youth  shrink  from  it  the  most  sensi- 
tively in  their  age  ;  for  they  who  possess  certain  advantages, 
and  are  morbidly  vain  of  them,  will  naturally  be  disposed  to 
seek  that  sphere  for  which  those  advantages  are  best  calculated  ; 
and  when  youth  and  its  concomitants  depart,  the  vanity  so  long 
fed  still  remains,  and  perpetually  mortifies  them  by  recalling 
not  so  much  the  qualities  they  have  lost,  as  the  esteem  which 
those  qualities  conferred  ;  and  by  contrasting  not  so  much  their 
own  present  alteration,  as  the  change  they  experience  in  the 
respect  and  consideration  of  others.  What  wonder,  then,  that 
they  eagerly  fly  from  the  world,  which  has  only  mortification 
for  their  self-love,  or  that  we  find,  in  biography,  how  often  the 
most  assiduous  votaries  of  pleasure  have  become  the  most 
rigid  of  recluses?  For  my  part,  I  think  that  that  love  of  soli- 
tude which  the  ancients  so  eminently  possessed,  and  which,  to 
this  day,  is  considered  by  some  as  the  sign  of  a  great  mind, 
nearly  always  arises  from  a  tenderness  of  vanity,  easily 
wounded  in  the  commerce  of  the  rough  world  ;  and  that  it  is 
under  the  shadow  of  Disappointment  that  we  must  look  for 
the  hermitage.  Diderot  did  well,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending 
Rousseau,  to  write  against  solitude.  The  more  a  moralist  binds 
man  to  man,  and  forbids  us  to  divorce  our  interest  from  our 
kind,  the  more  effectually  is  the  end  of  morality  obtained. 
They  only  are  justifiable  in  seclusion  who,  like  the  Greek  philos- 
ophers, make  that  very  seclusion  the  means  of  serving  and 
enlightening  their  race — who  from  their  retreats  send  forth 
their  oracles  of  wisdom,  and  render  the  desert  which  surrounds 
them  eloquent  with  the  voice  of  truth.  But  remember,  Clarence 
(and  let  my  life,  useless  in  itself,  have  at  least  this  moral), 
that  for  him  who   in   no  wise   cultivates   his   talent   for   the 


«l6  THE   DISOWNED. 

benefit  of  others  ;  who  is  contented  with  being  a  good  hermit 
at  the  expense  of  being  a  bad  citizen  ;  who  looks  from  his 
retreat  upon  a  life  wasted  in  the  difficiles  nugct  of  the  most 
frivolous  part  of  the  world,  nor  redeems  in  the  closet  the  time 
he  has  spent  in  the  saloon, — remember,  that  for  him  seclusion 
loses  its  dignity,  philosophy  its  comfort,  benevolence  its  hope, 
and  even  religion  its  balm.  Knowledge  unemployed  may 
preserve  us  from  vice — but  knowledge  beneficently  employed  is 
virtue.  Perfect  happiness,  in  our  present  state,  is  impossible  ; 
for  Hobbes  says  justly,  that  our  nature  is  inseparable  from 
desires,  and  that  the  very  word  desire  (the  craving  for  some- 
thing not  possessed)  implies  that  our  present  felicity  is  not 
complete.  But  there  is  one  way  of  attaining  what  we  may 
term,  if  not  utter,  at  least  mortal  happiness  ;  it  is  this— a 
sincere  and  unrelaxing  activity  for  the  happiness  of  others.  In 
that  one  maxim  is  concentrated  whatever  is  noble  in  morality, 
sublime  in  religion,  or  unanswerable  in  truth.  In  that  pursuit 
we  have  all  scope  for  whatever  is  excellent  in  our  hearts,  and 
none  for  the  petty  passions  which  our  nature  is  heir  to.  Thus 
engaged,  whatever  be  our  errors,  there  will  be  nobility,  not 
weakness,  in  our  remorse  ;  whatever  our  failure,  virtue,  not 
selfishness,  in  our  regret ;  and,  in  success,  vanity  itself  will 
become  lioly  and  triumph  eternal.  As  astrologers  were  wont 
to  receive  upon  metals  '  the  benign  aspect  of  the  stars,  so  as  to 
detain  and  fix,  as  it  were,  the  felicity  of  that  hour  which  would 
otherwise  be  volatile  and  fugitive,'  *  even  so  will  that  success 
leave  imprinted  upon  our  memory  a  blessing  which  cannot 
pass  away — preserve  for  ever  upon  our  names,  as  on  a  signet, 
the  hallowed  influence  of  the  hour  in  which  our  great  end  was 
effected,  and  treasure  up  'the  relics  of  heaven  '  in  the  sanctuary 
of  a  human  fame." 

As  the  old  man  ceased,  there  was  a  faint  and  hectic  flush 
over  his  face,  an  enthusiasm  on  his  features,  which  age  made 
almost  holy,  and  which  Clarence  had  never  observed  there  be- 
fore. In  truth,  his  young  listener  was  deeply  affected,  and  the 
advice  of  liis  adopted  parent  was  afterwards  impressed  with 
more  awful  solemnity  upon  his  remembrance.  Already  he  had 
acquired  nuich  worldly  lore  from  Talbot's  precepts  and  con- 
versation. He  had  obtained  even  something  better  than  world- 
ly lore — a  kindly  and  indulgent  disposition  to  his  fellow  creat- 
ures :  for  he  had  seen  that  foibles  were  not  inconsistent  with 
generous  and  great  qualities,  and  that  we  judge  wrongly  of  hu- 
inan  nature  when  we  ridicule  its  littleness.     The  very  circura- 

*  Bacon. 


THE  DISOWNED.  ifj 

Stances  which  make  the  shallow  misanthropical,  incline  the  wise 
to  be  benevolent.  Fools  discover  that  frailty  is  not  incompati- 
ble with  great  men,  they  wonder  and  despise  ;  but  the  discern- 
ing find  that  greatness  is  not  incompatible  with  frailty,  and  they 
admire  and  indulge. 

But  a  still  greater  benefit  than  this  of  toleration  did  Clarence 
derive  from  the  commune  of  that  night.  He  became  strength- 
ened in  his  honorable  ambition,  and  nerved  to  unrelaxing  exer- 
tion. The  recollection  of  Talbot's  last  words,  on  that  niglit, 
occurred  to  him  often  and  often,  when  sick  at  heart,  and  languid 
with  baffled  hope ! — it  roused  him  from  that  gloom  and  des- 
pondency which  are  always  unfavorable  to  virtue,  and  in- 
cited him  once  more  to  that  labor  in  the  vineyard  which,  whether 
our  hour  be  late  or  early,  will,  if  earnest,  obtain  a  blessing  and 
reward. 

The  hour  was  now  waxing  late,  and  Talbot,  mindful  of  his 
companion's  health,  rose  to  retire.  As  he  pressed  Clarence's 
hand  and  bade  him  farewell  for  the  night.  Linden  thought  there 
was  something  more  than  usually  impressive  in  his  manner  and 
affectionate  in  his  words.  Perhaps  this  was  the  natural  result 
of  their  conversation. 

The  next  morning,  Clarence  was  awakened  by  a  noise.  He 
listened,  and  heard  distinctly  an  alarmed  cry  proceeding  from 
the  room  in  which  Talbot  slept,  and  which  was  opposite  to  his 
own.  He  rose  hastily  and  hurried  to  the  chamber.  The  door 
was  open,  the  old  servant  was  bending  over  the  bed :  Clarence 
approached,  and  saw  that  he  supported  his  master  in  his  arms. 
"  Good  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  wliat  is  the  matter  ?  "  The  faithful 
old  man  lifted  up  his  face  to  Clarence,  and  the  big  tears  rolled 
fast  from  eyes  in  which  the  sources  of  such  emotion  were  well- 
nigh  dried  up. 

"He  loved  you  well,  sir!  "  he  said,  and  could  say  no  more. 
He  droi)ped  the  body  gently,  and,  throwing  himself  on  the 
floor,  sobbed  aloud.  With  a  foreboding  and  chilled  heart,  Clar- 
ence bent  forward  ;  the  face  of  his  benefactor  lay  directly  be- 
fore him,  and  the  hand  of  death  was  upon  it.  The  soul  had 
passed  to  its  account  hours  since,  in  the  hush  of  night :  passed 
apparently,  without  a  struggle  or  a  pang,  like  the  wind,  which 
animates  the  harp  one  moment,  and  the  next  is  gone. 

Linden  seized  his  hand — it  was  heavy  and  cold;  his  eye  rested 
upon  the  miniature  of  the  unfortunate  Lady  Merton,  which,  since 
the  night  of  the  attempted  robbery,  Talbot  had  worn  constantly 
round  his  neck.  Strange  and  powerful  was  the  contrast  of  the 
pictured  face,  in  which  not  a  color  had  yet  faded,  and  where  the 


21^  ttiS    DISOWNED. 

hues,  and  fulness,  and  prime  of  youth  dwelt,  unconscious  of 
the  lapse  of  years,  with  the  aged  and  shrunken  countenance  of 
ihe  deceased. 

In  that  contrast  was  a  sad  and  mighty  moral  ;  it  wrought, 
as  it  were,  a  contract  between  youth  and  age,  and  conveyed  a 
rapid  but  full  history  of  our  passions  and  our  life. 

The  servant  looked  up  once  more  on  the  countenance  ;  he 
pointed  toward  it  and  muttered — "  See — see  !  how  awfully  it 
is  changed  I " 

"  But  there  is  a  smile  upon  it !  "  said  Clarence,  as  he  flung 
himself  beside  the  body  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

"Virtue  is  like  precious  odors,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or 
crushed  ;  for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best 
discover  virtue." — Bacon. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  while  Talbot  was  bequeath- 
ing to  Clarence,  as  the  most  valuable  of  legacies,  the  doctrines  of 
a  philosophy  he  had  acquired,  perhaps  too  late  to  practice, 
Glendower  was  carrying  those  very  doctrines,  so  far  as  his 
limited  sphere  would  allow,  into  the  rule  and  exercise  of  his 
life. 

Since  the  death  of  the  bookseller,  which  we  have  before  re- 
corded, Glendower  had  been  left  utterly  without  resource.  The 
others  to  whom  he  applied  were  indisposed  to  avail  themselves 
of  an  unknown  ability.  The  trade  of  book-making  was  not 
then  as  it  is  now,  and  if  it  had  been,  it  would  not  have  sug- 
gested itself  to  the  high-spirited  and  unworldly  student.  Some 
publishers  offered,  it  is  true,  a  reward  tempting  enough  for  an 
immoral  tale  ;  others  spoke  of  the  value  of  an  attack  upon  the 
Americans  ;  one  suggested  an  ode  to  the  minister,  and  another 
hinted  that  a  pension  might  possibly  be  granted  to  one  who 
would  prove  extortion  not  tyranny.  But  these  insinuations 
fell  upon  a  dull  ear,  and  the  tribe  of  Barabbas  were  astonished 
to  find  that  an  author  could  imagine  interest  and  principle  not 
synonymous. 

Struggling  with  want,  which  hourly  grew  more  imperious 
and  urgent  ;  wasting  his  heart  on  studies  which  brought  fever 
to  his  pulse,  and  disappointment  to  his  ambition  ;  gnawed  to 
the  very  soul  by  the  mortifications  which  his  poverty  gave  to 
his  pride;  and  watching  with  tearless  eyes,  but  a  maddening 


tHE   DISOWNED.  2i9 

brain,  the  slender  form  of  his  wife,  now  waxing  weaker  and 
fainter,  as  the  canker  of  disease  fastened  upon  the  core  of  her 
young  but  blighted  life,  there  was  yet  a  high,  though,  alas !  not 
constant  consolation  within  him,  whenever  from  the  troubles 
of  this  dim  spot  his  thoughts  could  escape,  like  birds  released 
from  their  cage,  and  lose  themselves  in  the  lustre  and  freedoln 
of  their  native  heaven. 

"  If,"  thought  he,  as  he  looked  upon  his  secret  and  treasured 
work,  "  if  the  wind  scatter,  or  the  rock  receive  these  seeds, 
they  were  at  least  dispersed  by  a  hand  which  asked  no  selfish 
return,  and  a  heart  which  would  have  lavished  the  harvest 
of  its  labors  upon  those  who  know  not  the  husbandman,  and 
trample  his  hopes  into  the  dust." 

But  by  degrees,  this  comfort  of  a  noble  and  generous  nature, 
these  whispers  of  a  vanity  rather  to  be  termed  holy  than  ex- 
cusable, began  to  grow  unfrequent  and  low.  The  cravings  of 
a  more  engrossing  and  heavy  want  than  those  of  the  mind 
came  eagerly  and  rapidly  upon  him  ;  the  fair  cheek  of  his  in- 
fant became  pinched  and  hollow  ;  his  wife  conquered  nature 
itself  by  love,  and  starved  herself  in  silence,  and  set  bread  be- 
fore him  with  a  smile,  and  bade  him  eat. 

"But  you — you?"  he  would  ask  inquiringly,  and  then  pause. 

"  I  have  dined,  dearest  ;  I  want  nothing;  eat,  love,  eat." 

But  he  ate  not.  The  food  robbed  from  her  seemed  to  him 
more  deadly  than  poison  ;  and  he  would  rise,  and  dash  his 
hand  to  his  brow,  and  go  forth  alone,  with  nature  unsatisfied 
to  look  upon  this  luxurious  world,  and  learn  content. 

It  was  after  such  a  scene  that,  one  day,  he  wandered  forth 
into  the  streets,  desperate  and  confused  in  mind,  and  fainting 
with  hunger,  and  half  insane  with  fiery  and  wrong  thoughts, 
which  dashed  over  his  barren  and  gloomy  soul,  and  desolated, 
but  conquered  not!  It  was  evening:  he  stood  (for  he  had 
strode  on  so  rapidly,  at  first,  that  his  strength  was  now  ex- 
hausted and  he  was  forced  to  pause),  leaning  against  the  railed 
area  of  a  house,  in  a  lone  and  unfrequented  street.  No  pas- 
senger shared  the  dull  and  obscure  thoroughfare.  He  stood, 
literally,  in  scene  as  in  heart,  solitary  amidst  the  great  city, 
and  wherever  he  looked — lo  !  there  were  none  ! 

"  Two  days,"  said  he,  slowly  and  faintly,  *'  two  days,  and 
bread  has  only  once  passed  my  lips :  and  that  was  snatched 
from  her— from  those  lips  which  I  have  fed  with  sweet  and 
holy  kisses,  and  whence  my  sole  comfort  in  this  weary  life  has 
been  drawn.  And  she— ay,  she  starves— and  my  clnld,  too. 
They  complain  not— tliey  murmur  not — but  they  lift  up  their 


220  THE  Disowned. 

eyes  to  me  and  ask  for —  Merciful  God,  thou  didst  make 
man  in  benevolence  ;  thou  dost  survey  this  world  with  a  pity- 
ing and  paternal  eye — save,  comfort,  cherish  them,  and  crush 
me  if  thou  wilt  !  " 

At  that  moment  a  man  darted  suddenly  from  an  obscure 
alley,  and  passed  Glendower  at  full  speed  ;  presently  came  a 
cry  and  a  shout,  and  the  rapid  trampling  of  feet,  and,  in  an- 
otlier  moment,  an  eager  and  breathless  crowd  rushed  upon  the 
solitude  of  the  street. 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  cried  a  hundred  voices  to  Glendower — 
"where — which  road  did  the  robber  take  ?  " — but  Glendower 
could  not  answer  ;  his  nerves  were  unstrung,  and  his  dizzy 
brain  swam  and  reeled  :  and  the  faces  which  peered  upon  him. 
and  the  voices  which  shrieked  and  yelled  in  his  ear,  were  to 
him  as  the  forms  and  sounds  of  a  ghastly  and  phantasmal 
world.  His  head  drooped  upon  his  bosom — he  clung  to  the 
area  for  support — the  crowd  passed  on — they  were  in  pursuit 
of  guilt — they  were  thirsting  after  blood — they  were  going  to 
fill  the  dungeon  and  feed  the  gibbet — what  to  them  was  the 
virtue  they  could  have  supported,  or  the  famine  they  could 
have  relieved?  But  they  knew  not  his  distress,  nor  the  extent 
of  his  weakness,  or  some  would  have  tarried  and  aided,  for 
there  is,  after  all,  as  much  kindness  as  cruelty  in  our  nature; 
perhaps  they  thought  it  was  only  some  intoxicated  and  maud- 
lin idler — or,  perhaps,  in  the  heat  of  their  pursuit,  they  thought 
not  at  all. 

So  they  rolled  on,  and  their  voices  died  away,  and  their  steps 
were  hushed,  and  Glendower,  insensible  and  cold  as  the  iron 
he  clung  to,  was  once  more  alone.  Slowly  he  revived  ;  he 
opened  his  dim  and  glazing  eyes,  and  saw  the  evening  star 
break  from  its  chamber,  and,  though  sullied  by  the  thick  and 
foggy  air,  scatter  its  holy  smiles  upon  the  polluted  city. 

He  looked  quietly  on  the  still  night,  and  its  first  watcher 
among  the  hosts  of  heaven,  and  felt  something  of  balm  sink 
into  his  soul  ;  not,  indeed,  that  vague  and  delicious  calm  which, 
in  his  boyhood  of  poesy  and  romance,  he  had  drunk  in,  by 
green  solitudes,  from  the  mellow  twilight, — but  a  quiet,  sad 
and  sober,  circling  gradually  over  his  mind,  and  bringing  it 
back  from  its  confused  and  disordered  visions  and  darkness, 
to  the  recollection  and  reality  of  his  bitter  life. 

By  degrees  the  scene  he  had  so  imperfectly  witnessed,  the 
flight  of  the  robber,  and  the  eager  pursuit  of  the  mob,  grew  over 
him  :  a  dark  and  guilty  thought  burst  upon  his  mind, 

**  I  am  a  nian  like  that  criminal,"  said  he  fiercely,     "  I  have 


TliE   DISOWNED.  iJt 

nerves,  sinews,  muscles,  flesh  ;  I  feel  hunger,  thirst,  pain,  as 
acutely  ;  why  should  I  endure  more  than  he  can  ?  Perhaps  he 
had  a  wife — a  child — and  he  saw  them  starving  inch  by  inch, 
and  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  their  protector — and  so  he 
sinned. — And  I — I — can  I  not  sin  too  for  mine?  can  I  not  dare 
what  the  wild  beast  and  the  vulture,  and  the  fierce  hearts  of 
my  brethren  dare  for  their  mates  and  young?  One  gripe  of 
this  hand — one  cry  from  this  voice — and  my  board  might  be 
heaped  with  plenty,  and  my  child  fed,  and  she  smile  as  she 
was  wont  to  smile — for  one  night  at  least." 

And  as  these  thoughts  broke  upon  him,  Glendower  rose,  and 
with  a  step  firm,  even  in  weakness,  he  strode  unconsciously 
onward. 

A  figure  appeared ;  Glendower's  heart  beat  thick.  He 
slouched  his  hat  over  his  brows,  and  for  one  moment  wrestled 
with  his  pride  and  his  stern  virtue  ;  the  virtue  conquered,  but 
not  the  pride  ;  the  virtue  forbade  him  to  be  the  robber — the 
pride  submitted  to  be  the  suppliant.  He  sprang  forward,  ex- 
tended his  hands  toward  the  stranger,  and  cried  in  a  sharp 
voice,  the  agony  of  which  rung  through  the  long,  dull  street 
with  a  sudden  and  echoless  sound,  "Charity — food  !  " 

The  stranger  pjiused — one  of  the  boldest  of  men  in  his  own 
line,  he  was  as  timid  as  a  woman  in  any  other;  mistaking  the 
meaning  of  the  petitioner,  and  terrified  by  the  vehemence  of 
his  gesture,  he  said,  in  a  trembling  tone,  as  he  hastily  pulled 
out  his  purse : 

"There,  there  I  do  not  hurt  me — take  it — take  all !" 

Glendower  knew  the  voice,  as  a  sound  not  unfamiliar  to  him  ; 
his  pride  returned  in  full  force.  "  None,"  thought  he,  "  who 
know  me,  shall  know  my  full  degradation  also."  And  he 
turned  away  ;  but  the  stranger,  mistaking  the  motion,  extended 
his  hand  to  him,  saying,  "Take  this,  my  friend — you  will  have 
no  need  of  violence!"  and  as  he  advanced  nearer  to  his  sup- 
posed assailant,  he  beheld,  by  the  pale  lamp-light,  and  instantly 
recognized,  his  features : 

"Ah  !  "  cried  he,  in  astonishment,  but  with  internal  rejoic- 
ing— "  ah  !  is  it  you  who  are  thus  reduced  !  " 

"You  say  right,  Crauford,"  said  Glendower  sullenly,  and 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  "it  is  T !  but  you  are 
mistaken, — I  am  a  beggar,  not  a  ruffian  ! " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  answered  Crauford  ;  "  how  fortunate  that 
we  should  meet !  Providence  watches  over  us  unceasingly  !  I 
have  long  sought  you  in  vain.  But"— (and  here  the  wayward 
malignity,  sometimes,  though  not  always,  the  characteristic  of 


i2'jt  tHfi  Disov/jsree. 

Crauford's  nature,  irresistibly  broke  out) — "  but  that  you,  <A 
all  men,  should  suffer  so — you,  proud,  susceptible,  virtuous 
beyond  human  virtue — you,  whose  fibres  are  as  acute  as  the 
naked  eye — that  you  should  bear  this,  and  wince  not !  " 

"You  do  ray  humanity  wrong  I  "  said  Glendower,  with  a 
bitter  and  almost  ghastly  smile  ;  "I  do  worse  than  wince  !  " 

"Ay,  is  it  so  !  "  said  Crauford  :  *'  have  you  awakened  at  last? 
Has  your  philosophy  taken  a  more  impassioned  dye?" 

"  Mock  me  not  ! "  cried  Glendower,  and  his  eye,  usually  soft 
in  its  deep  thoughtfulness,  glared  wild  and  savage  upon  the 
hypocrite,  who  stood  trembling,  yet  half  sneering,  at  the  storm 
he  had  raised — "  my  passions  are  even  now  beyond  my  mas- 
tery— loose  them  not  upon  you  !  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Crauford  gently,  "  I  meant  not  to  vex  or  wound 
you.  I  have  sought  you  several  times  since  the  last  night  we 
met,  but  in  vain  ;  you  had  left  your  lodgings,  and  none  knew 
whither.  I  would  fain  talk  with  you.  I  have  a  scheme  to  pro- 
pose to  you  which  will  make  you  rich  forever — rich — literally 
rich  ! — not  merely  above  poverty,  but  high  in  affluence  !  " 

Glendower  looked  incredulously  at  the  speaker,  who  con- 
tinued : 

"  The  scheme  has  danger — f/iaf  you  can  dare  !  " 

Glendower  was  still  silent ;  but  his  set  and  stern  counte- 
nance was  sufficient  reply.  *'  Some  sacrifice  of  your  pride,"  con- 
tinued Crauford — "  that  also  you  can  bear  ? "  and  the  tempter 
almost  grinned  with  pleasure  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"He  who  is  poor,"  said  Glendower,  speaking  at  last,  "has 
a  right  to  pride.  He  who  starves  has  it  too  ;  but  he  who  sees 
those  whom  he  loves  famish,  and  cannot  aid,  has  it  not  !  " 

"  Come  home  with  me,  then,"  said  Crauford  ;  "  you  seem 
faint  and  weak  :  nature  craves  food — come  and  partake  of 
mine — we  will  then  talk  over  this  scheme,  and  arrange  its  com- 
pletion." 

"  I  cannot,"  answered  Glendower  quietly. 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  f^ey  starve  at  home  !  " 

"  Heavens !  "  said  Crauford,  affected  for  a  moment  into 
sincerity — "  it  is  indeed  fortunate  that  business  should  have 
led  me  here  ;  but,  meanwhile,  you  will  not  refuse  this  trifle — 
as  a  loan  merely.  By  and  by  our  scheme  will  make  you  so 
rich,  that  I  must  be  the  borrower." 

Glendower  <//V  hesitate  for  a  moment — he  did  swallow  a 
bitter  rising  of  the  heart  ;  but  he  thought  of  those  at  home,  and 
the  struggle  was  over. 


THE    DISOWNED.  223 

"  I  thank  you."  said  he  ;  "I  thank  you  for  their  sake  :  the 
/ime  may  come," — and  the  proud  gentleman  stopped  short,  for 
his  desolate  fortunes  rose  before  him,  and  forbade  all  hope  of 
the  future. 

"Yes,"  cried  Crauford,  "  the  time  may  come  when  you  will 
repay  me  this  money  a  hundred-fold.  But  where  do  you  live  ? 
You  are  silent.  Well  you  will  not  inform  me — I  understand 
you.  Meet  me,  then,  here,  on  this  very  spot,  three  nights 
hence — you  will  not  fail  ?" 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Glendower  ;  and  pressing  Crauford's  hand 
with  a  generous  and  grateful  warmth,  which  might  have  soft- 
ened a  heart  less  obdurate,  he  turned  away. 

Folding  his  arms,  while  a  bitter  yet  joyous  expression  crossed 
his  countenance,  Crauford  stood  still,  gazing  upon  the  retreat- 
ing form  of  the  noble  and  unfortunate  man  whom  he  had 
marked  for  destruction. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  this  virtue  is  a  fine  thing,  a  very  fine 
thing  to  talk  so  loftily  about.  A  little  craving  of  the  gastric 
juices,  a  little  pinching  of  this  vile  body,  as  your  philosophers 
and  saints  call  our  better  part,  and  lo  !  virtue  oozes  out  like 
water  through  a  leaky  vessel, — and  the  vessel  sinks  !  No,  no  ; 
virtue  is  a  weak  game,  and  a  poor  game,  and  a  losing  game. 
Why,  there  is  that  man,  the  very  pink  of  integrity  and  recti- 
tude, he  is  now  only  wanting  temptation  to  fall — and  he  will 
fall,  in  a  fine  phrase,  too,  I'll  be  sworn  !  And  then,  having 
once  fallen,  there  will  be  no  medium — he  will  become  utterly 
corrupt ;  while  /,  honest  Dick  Crauford,  doing  as  other  wise 
men  do,  cheat  a  trick  or  two,  in  playing  with  fortune,  without 
being  a  whit  the  worse  for  it.  Do  I  not  subscribe  to  charities  ; 
am  1  not  constant  at  church,  ay,  and  meeting  to  boot  ;  kind  to 
my  servants,  obliging  to  my  friends,  loyal  to  my  king.?  'Gad, 
if  I  were  less  loving  to  myself,  I  should  have  been  far  less  use- 
ful  to  my  country  !     And,  now,   now,  let   me  see   what  has 

brought  me    to    these    filthy    suburbs  !     Ah,  Madam  H . 

Woman,  incomparable  woman  !  On,  Richard  Crauford,  thou 
hast  made  a  good  night's  work  of  it  hitherto ! — business 
seasons  pleasure  !  "  and  the  villain  upon,  system  moved  away. 

Glendower  hastened  to  his  home  ;  it  was  miserably  changed, 
even  from  the  humble  abode  in  which  we  last  saw  him.  The 
unfortunate  pair  had  chosen  their  present  residence  from  a  mel- 
ancholy refinement  in  luxury  ;  they  had  chosen  it  because 
none  else  shared  it  with  them,  and  their  famine,  and  pride,  and 
struggles,  and  despair,  were  without  witness  or  pity. 

With  a  heavy  step  Glendower  entered  the  chamber  wh?r« 


2  24  THE    DISOWNED, 

his  wife  sat.  When  at  a  distance  he  had  heard  a  faint  moan, 
but  as  he  had  approached,  it  ceased  ;  for  she  from  whom  it 
came  knew  his  step,  and  hushed  her  grief  and  pain,  that  they 
might  not  add  to  his  own.  The  peevishness,  the  querulous  and 
stinging  irritations  of  want,  came  not  to  that  affectionate  and 
kindly  heart  ;  nor  could  all  those  biting  and  bitter  evils  of  fate, 
which  turn  the  love  that  is  born  of  luxury  into  rancour  and 
gall,  scathe  the  beautiful  and  holy  passion  which  had  knit  into 
one  those  two  unearthly  natures.  They  rather  clung  the 
closer  to  each  other,  as  all  things  in  heaven  and  earth  spoke  in 
tempest  or  in  gloom  around  them,  and  coined  their  sorrows 
into  endearment,  and  their  looks  into  smiles,  and  strove,  each 
from  the  depth  of  despair,  to  pluck  hope  and  comfort  for  the 
other. 

This,  it  is  true,  was  more  striking  and  constant  in  her  than 
in  Glendower !  for  in  love,  man,  be  he  ever  so  generous,  is 
always  outdone.  Yet  even  when,  in  moments  of  extreme  pas- 
sion and  conflict,  the  strife  broke  from  his  breast  into  words, 
never  once  was  his  discontent  vented  upon  her,  nor  his  re- 
proaches lavished  on  any  but  fortune  or  himself,  nor  his  mur- 
murs mingled  with  a  single  breath  wounding  to  her  tenderness, 
or  detracting  from  his  love. 

He  threw  open  the  door  ;  the  wretched  light  cast  its  sickly 
beams  over  the  squalid  walls,  foul  with  green  damps,  and  the 
miserable  yet  clean  bed,  and  the  fireless  hearth,  and  the  empty 
board,  and  the  pale  cheek  of  the  wife,  as  she  rose  and  flung 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  murmured  out  her  joy  and  wel- 
come. "  There,"  said  he,  as  he  extricated  himself  from  her, 
and  flung  the  money  upon  the  table,  "  there,  love,  pine  no 
more,  feed  yourself  and  our  daughter,  and  then  let  us  sleep  and 
be  happy. in  our  dreams." 

A  writer,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  the  present  day,  has  told 
the  narrator  of  this  history,  that  no  interest  of  a  high  nature 
can  be  given  to  extreme  poverty.  I  know  not  if  this  be  true  ; 
yet,  if  I  mistake  not  our  human  feelings,  there  is  nothing  so 
exalted,  or  so  divine,  as  a  great  and  brave  spirit  working  out  its 
end  through  every  earthly  obstacle  and  evil  ;  watching  through 
the  utter  darkness,  and  steadily  defying  the  phantoms  which 
crowd  around  it ;  wrestling  with  the  mighty  allurements  and  re- 
jecting the  fearful  voices  of  that  want  which  is  the  deadliest 
and  surest  of  human  tempters  ;  nursing  through  all  calamity  the 
love  of  species,  and  the  warmer  and  closer  affections  of  private 
ties  ;  sacrificing  no  duty,  resisting  all  sin  ;  and  amidst  every 
horror  and  every  humiliation,  feeding  the  still  and  bright  light 


THE    DISOWNED.  225 

of  that  genius  which,  like  the  lamp  of  the  fabulist,  though  it 
may  waste  itself  for  years  amidst  the  depths  of  solitude  and 
the  silence  of  the  tomb,  shall  live  and  burn  immortal  and  un- 
dimmed,  when  all  around  it  is  rottenness  and  decay  ! 

And  yet  I  confess  thatit'is  a  painful  and  bitter  task  to  record 
the  humiliations,  the  wearing,  petty,  stinging  humiliations,  of 
Poverty ;  to  count  the  drops  as  they  slowly  fall,  one  by  one, 
upon  the  fretted  and  indignant  heart;  to  particularize,  with  the 
scrupulous  and  nice  hand  of  indifference,  the  fractional  and 
divided  movements  in  the  dial-plate  of  Misery  ;  to  behold  the 
refinement  of  birth,  the  masculine  pride  of  blood,  the  dignities 
of  intellect,  the  wealth  of  knowledge,  the  delicacy  and  graces 
of  womanhood — all  that  ennoble  and  soften  the  stony  mass  of 
commonplaces  which  is  our  life,  frittered  into  atoms,  trampled 
into  the  dust  and  mire  of  the  meanest  thoroughfares  of  dis- 
tress ;  life  and  soul,  the  energies  and  aims  of  man,  ground 
into  one  prostrating  want,  cramped  into  one  levelling  sympathy 
with  the  dregs  and  refuse  of  his  kind,  blistered  into  a  single 
galling  and  festering  sore  :  this  is,  I  own,  a  painful  and  a  bit- 
ter task  ;  but  it  hath  its  redemption  :  a  pride  even  in  debase- 
ment, a  pleasure  even  in  woe  :  and  it  is  therefore  that  while  I 
have  abridged,  I  have  not  shunned  it.  There  are  some  whom 
the  lightning  of  fortune  blasts,  only  to  render  holy.  Amidst 
all  that  humbles  and  scathes — amidst  all  that  shatters  from 
their  life  its  verdure,  smites  to  the  dust  the  pomp  and  summit 
of  their  pride,  and  in  the  very  heart  of  existence  wiiteth  a  sud- 
den and  "  strange  defeature,"  they  stand  erect, — riven,  not  up- 
rooted,— a  monument  less  of  pity  than  of  awe  !  There  are 
some  who  pass  through  the  Lazar-House  of  Misery  with  a  step 
more  august  than  a  Caesar's  in  his  hall.  The  very  things 
which,  seen  alone,  are  despicable  and  vile,  associated  with 
them  become  almost  venerable  and  divine  ;  and  one  ray,  how- 
ever dim  and  feeble,  of  that  intense  holiness  which,  in  the 
Infant  God,  shed  majesty  over  the  manger  and  the  straw,  not 
denied  to  those  who,  in  the  depth  of  affliction,  cherish  His  pa- 
tient image,  flings  over  the  meanest  localities  of  earth  an 
emanation  from  the  glory  of  Heaven  J 


226  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  L. 


"  Letters  from  divers  hands,  which  will  absolve 
Ourselves  from  long  narration." — Tanner  of  Tyburn. 

One  morning  about  a  fortnight  after  Talbot's  death,  Clarence 
was  sitting  alone,  thoughtful  and  melancholy,  when  the  three 
following  letters  were  put  into  his  hand  : 

LETTER  I. 
FROM  THE  DUKE  OF  HAVERFIELD. 

"  Let  me,  my  dear  Linden,  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you 
upon  your  accession,  of  fortune  :  five  thousand  a  year,  Scars- 
dale,  and  eighty  thousand  pounds  in  the  funds,  are  very  pretty 
foes  to  starvation  !  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  had  but  shot 
that  frosty  Caucasus  of  humanity,  that  pillar  of  the  state,  made 
not  to  bend,  that — but  you  know  already  whom  I  mean,  and 
sol  will  spare  you  more  of  my  lamentable  metaphors :  had  you 
shot  Lord  Borodaile,  your  happiness  would  now  be  complete ! 
Everybody  talks  of  your  luck.  La  Meronvillc  tending  on  you 
with  her  white  hands,  the  prettiest  hands  in  the  world — who 
v/ould  not  be  wounded,  even  by  Lord  Borodaile,  for  such  a 
nurse  ?  And  then  Talbot's — yet,  I  will  not  speak  of  that,  for 
you  are  very  unlike  the  present  generation  ;  and  who  knows 
but  you  may  have  some  gratitude,  some  affection,  some  natural 
feeling  in  you.  I  had  once  ;  but  that  was  before  I  went  to 
France — those  Parisians,  with  their  fine  sentiments,  and  witty 
philosophy,  play  the  devil  with  one's  good  old-fashioned  feel- 
ings. So  Lord  Aspeden  is  to  have  an  Italian  ministry.  By- 
the-by,  shall  you  go  with  him,  or  will  you  not  rather  stay  at 
home,  and  enjoy  your  new  fortunes — hunt — race — dine  out — 
dance — vote  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and,  in  short,  do  all 
that  an  Englishman  and  a  gentleman  should  do?  Ornamento 
e  splendor  del  secol  nostra.  Write  me  a  line  whenever  you  have 
nothing  better  to  do. 

**  And  believe  me, 

"Most  truly  yours, 

"  Haverfield. 

"  Will  you  sell  your  black  marc,  or  will  you  buy  my  brown 
one  ?  Utrum  horum  mavis  accipe,  the  only  piece  of  Latin  I 
remember." 


the  disowned.  227 

letter  from  lord  aspeden. 
"  My  dear  Linden  : 

"  Suffer  me  to  enter  most  fully  into  your  feeling. 
Death,  my  friend,  is  common  to  all:  we  must  submit  to  its 
dispensations.  I  heard  accidentally  of  the  great  fortune  left 
you  by  Mr,  Talbot  (your  father,  I  suppose  I  may  venture  to 
call  him).  Indeed,  though  there  is  a  silly  prejudice  against 
illegitimacy,  yet,  as  oar  immortal  bard  says  : 

'  Wherefore  base  ? 
When  thy  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 
Thy  mind  as  generous  ^nd  thy  shape  as  true 
As  honest  madam's  issue  ! ' 

For  my  part,  my  dear  Linden,  I  say,  on  your  behalf,  that  it  is 
very  likely  that  you  are  a  natural  son,  for  such  are  always  the 
luckiest  and  the  best. 

*'  You  have  probably  heard  of  the  honor  his  Majesty  has  con- 
ferred on  me,  in  appointing  to  my  administration  the  city  of . 

As  the  choice  of  a  secretary  has  been  left  to  me,  1  need  not 
say  how  happy  I  shall  be  to  keep  my  promise  to  you.     Indeed, 

as  I  told  Lord yesterday  morning,  I  do  not  know  anywhere 

a  young  man  who  has  more  talent,  or  who  plays  better  on  the 
flute. 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  young  friend  ; 

"And  believe  me, 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  Aspeden." 

letter   from   MADAME   DE   LA   MERONVILLE. 
(Translated.) 

"  You  have  done  me  wrong — great  wrong.  I  loved  you — I 
waited  on  you — tended  you — nursed  you — gave  all  up  for  you  ; 
and  you  forsook  me — forsook  me  without  a  word.  True,  that 
you  have  been  engaged  in  a  melancholy  duty,  but,  at  least,  you 
had  time  to  write  a  line,  to  cast  a  thought,  to  one  who  had 
shown  for  you  the  love  that  I  have  done.  But  we  will  pass 
over  all  this  ;  I  will  not  reproach  you — it  is  beneath  me.  The 
vicious  upbraid — the  virtuous  for^^tve  !  I  have  for  several  days 
left  your  house.  I  should  never  have  come  to  it,  had  you  not 
been  wounded,  and,  as  I  fondly  imagined,  for  my  sake.  Return 
when  you  will,  I  shall  no  longer  be  there  to  persecute  and 
torment  you. 

"  Pardon  this  letter.  I  have  said  too  much  for  myself — a 
hundred  times  too  much  to  you  ;  but  I  shall  not  sin  again. 
This  intrusion  is  my  last.  Cecile  de  la  Meronville." 


428  THE   DISOWNED. 

These  letters  will,  probably,  suffice  to  clear  up  ttiat  part  of 
Clarence's  history  which  had  not  hitherto  been  touched  upon  ; 
they  will  show  that  Talbot's  will  (  after  several  legacies  to  his 
old  servants,  his  nearest  connections,  and  two  charitable  insti- 
tutions, which  he  had  founded,  and  for  some  years  supported  ) 
had  bequeathed  the  bulk  of  his  property  to  Clarence.  The 
words  in  which  the  bequest  was  made  were  kind  and  somewhat 
remarkable.  "  To  my  relation  and  friend,  commonly  known 
by  the  name  of  Clarence  Linden,  to  whom  I  am  bound  alike  by 
blood  and  affection,"  etc.  These  expressions,  joined  to  the 
magnitude  of  the  bequest,  the  apparently  unaccountable  attach- 
ment of  the  old  man  to  his  heir,  and  the  mystery  which  wrapt 
the  origin  of  the  latter,  all  concurred  to  give  rise  to  an  opinion, 
easily  received,  and  soon  universally  accredited,  that  Clarence 
was  a  natural  son  of  the  deceased  ;  and  so  strong  in  England 
is  the  aristocratic  aversion  to  an  unknown  lineage,  that  this 
belief,  unflattering  as  it  was,  procured  for  Linden  a  much  higher 
consideration,  on  the  score  of  birth,  than  he  might  otherwise 
have  enjoyed.  Furthermore  will  the  above  correspondence 
testify  the  general  dclat  of  Madam  La  Meronville's  attach- 
ment, and  the  construction  naturally  put  upon  it.  Nor  do  we 
see  much  left  for  us  to  explain,  with  regard  to  the  Frenchwoman 
herself,  which  cannot  equally  well  be  gleaned  by  any  judicious 
and  intelligent  reader  from  the  epistle  last  honored  by  his 
perusal.  Clarence's  sense  of  gallantry  did,  indeed,  smite  him 
severely,  for  his  negligence  and  ill-requital  to  one,  who,  what- 
ever her  faults  or  follies,  had  at  least  done  nothing  with  which 
he  had  a  right  to  reproach  her.  It  must,  however,  be  considered, 
in  his  defence,  that  the  fatal  event  which  had  so  lately  occurred, 
the  relapse  which  Clarence  had  suffered  in  consequence,  and 
the  melancholy  confusion  and  bustle  in  which  the  last  week  or 
ten  days  had  been  passed,  were  quite  sufficient  to  banish  her 
from  his  remembrance.  Still  she  was  a  woman,  and  had  loved, 
or  seemed  to  love  ;  and  Clarence,  as  he  wrote  to  her  a  long, 
kind,  and  almost  brotherly  letter,  in  return  for  her  own,  felt 
that,  in  giving  pain  to  another,  one  often  suffers  almost  as 
much  for  avoiding  as  for  committing  a  sin. 

We  have  said  his  letter  was  kind — it  was  also  frank,  and  yet 
prudent.  In  in  he  said  that  he  had  long  loved  another — which 
love  alone  could  have  rendered  him  insensible  to  her  attach- 
ment :  that  he,  nevertheless,  should  always  recall  her  memory 
with  equal  interest  and  admiration  ;  and  then,  with  a  tact  of 
flattery  which  the  nature  of  the  correspondence  and  the  sex  of 
the  person  addressed  rendered  excusable,  he  endeavored,  as 


THE  DISOWNED.  :529 

far  as  he  was  able,  to  soothe  and  please  the  vanity  which  the 
candor  of  his  avowal  was  calculated  to  wound. 

When  he  had  finished  this  letter  he  despatched  another  to 
Lord  Aspeden,  claiming  a  reprieve  of  some  days  before  he  an- 
swered the  proposal  of  the  diplomatist.  After  these  epistolary 
efforts,  he  summoned  his  valet,  and  told  him,  apparently  in  a 
careless  tone,  to  find  out  if  Lady  Westborough  was  still  in  town. 
Then  throwing  himself  on  the  couch,  he  wrestled  with  the  grief 
and  melancholy  which  the  death  of  a  friend,  and  more  than  a 
father,  might  well  cause  in  a  mind  less  susceptible  than  his, 
and  counted  the  dull  hours  crawl  onward  until  his  servant  re- 
turned. "  Lady  Westborough  and  all  the  family  had  been  gone 
a  week  to  their  seat  in ." 

"  Well,"  thought  Clarence,  "had  ^<?been  alive,  I  could  have 
entrusted  my  cause  to  a  mediator  ;  as  it  is,  I  will  plead,  or  rather 
assert  it,  myself.  Harrison,"  said  he  aloud,  "  see  that  my 
black  mare  is  ready  by  sunrise  to-morrow  ;  I  shall  leave  town 
for  some  days," 

"  Not  in  your  present  state  of  health,  sir,  surely  ?"  said  Har- 
rison, with  the  license  of  one  who  had  been  a  nurse, 

"  My  health  requires  it — no  more  words,  my  good  Harrison, 
see  that  I  am  obeyed."  And  Harrison,  shaking  his  head  doubt- 
fully, left  the  room, 

"  Rich,  independent,  free  to  aspire  to  the  heights  which  in 
England  are  only  accessible  to  those  who  join  wealth  to  ambi- 
tion, I  have  at  least,"  said  Clarence  proudly,  "no  unworthy 
pretensions  even  to  the  hand  of  Lady  Flora  Ardenne,  If  she 
can  love  me  for  myself,  if  she  can  trust  to  my  honor,  rely  on 
my  love,  feel  proud  in  my  pride,  and  aspiring  in  my  ambition, 
then,  indeed,  this  wealth  will  be  welcome  to  me,  and  the  dis- 
guised name,  which  has  cost  me  so  many  mortifications,  become 
grateful,  since  she  will  not  disdain  to  share  it." 

CHAPTER  LL 

"A  little  druid  wight, 
Of  withered  aspect  ;  but  his  eye  was  keen 
With  sweetness  mixed — in  russet  brown  bedight." 
— Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence, 
*'  Thus  holding  high  discourse,  they  came  to  where 
The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade. 
Still  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare. 
In  witching  wise,  as  1  i)efore  have  said." — Ibid. 

It  was  a  fine,  joyous  summer  morning  when  Clarence  set  out, 
alone,  and  on  horseback,  upon  his  enterprise  of  love  and  ad- 


i^6  THE  DISOWNED, 

venture.  If  there  be  anything  on  earth  more  reviving  and 
inspiriting  than  another,  it  is,  to  my  taste,  a  bright  day,  a  free 
horse,  a  journey  of  excitement  before  one,  and  loneliness ! 
Rousseau — in  his  own  way,  a  great,  though  rather  a  morbid 
epicure  of  this  world's  enjoyments — talks  with  rapture  of  his 
pedestrian  rambles  when  in  his  first  youth.  But  what  are  your 
foot-ploddings  to  the  joy  which  lifts  you  into  air  with  the 
bound  of  your  mettled  steed  ? 

But  there  are  times  when  an  iron  and  stern  sadness  locks, 
as  it  were,  within  itself  our  capacities  of  enjoyment ;  and  the 
song  of  the  birds,  and  the  green  freshness  of  the  summer  morn- 
ing, and  the  glad  motion  of  the  eager  horse,  brought  neither 
relief  nor  change  to  the  musings  of  the  young  adventurer. 

He  rode  on  for  several  miles  without  noticing  anything  on 
his  road,  and  only  now  and  then  testifying  the  nature  of  his 
thoughts  and  his  consciousness  of  solitude  by  brief  and  abrupt 
exclamations  and  sentences,  which  proclaimed  the  melancholy 
yet  exciting  subjects  of  his   meditations.     During   the  heat  of 

the  noon,  he  rested  at  a  small  public  house  about miles 

from  town  ;  and  resolving  to  take  his  horse  at  least  ten  miles 
further  before  his  day's  journey  ceased,  he  remounted  toward 
the  evening,  and  slowly  resumed  his  way. 

He  was  now  entering  the  same  county  in  which  he  first  made 
his  appearance  in  this  history.  Although  several  miles  from 
the  spot  on  which  the  memorable  night  with  the  gypsies  had 
been  passed,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  its  remembrance,  and  he 
sighed  as  he  recalled  the  ardent  hopes  which  then  fed  and 
animated  his  heart.  While  thus  musing,  he  heard  the  sound 
of  hoofs  behind  him,  and  presently  came  by  a  sober-looking 
man,  on  a  rough,  strong  pony,  laden  (besides  its  master's 
weight),  with  saddle-bags  of  uncommon  size,  and  to  all  appear- 
ance substantially  and  artfully  filled. 

Clarence  looked,  and,  after  a  second  survey,  recognized  the 
person  of  his  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Morris  Brown. 

Not  equally  reminiscent  was  the  worshipful  itinerant,  who, 
in  the  great  variety  of  forms  and  faces  which  it  was  his  profes- 
sional lot  to  encounter,  could  not  be  expected  to  preserve  a 
very  nice  or  distinguishing  recollection  of  each. 

"Your  servant,  sir,  your  servant,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  as  he 
rode  his  pony  alongside  of  our  traveller.  "Are  you  going  as 
far  as  W this  evening  ?" 

"I  hardly  know  yet,"  answered  Clarence  ;  "the  length  of  my 
ride  depends  upon  my  horse  rather  than  myself." 

"Oh,  well,  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Brown  ;  "but  you  will  allow 


THfi    DISOWNED,  23I 

me,  perhaps,  sir,  the  honor  of  riding  with  you  as  far  as  you 

"You  give  me  much  gratification  by  your  proposal,  Mr. 
Brown  !  "  said  Clarence, 

The  broker  looked  in  surprise  at  his  companion.  "So  you 
know  me,  sir?" 

"  I  do,"  replied  Clarence.  "  I  am  surprised  that  you  have 
forgotten  me." 

Slowly  Mr.  Brown  gazed,  till  at  last  his  memory  began  to 
give  itself  the  rousing  shake — "God  bless  me,  sir,  1  beg  you  a 
thousand  pardons — I  now  remember  you  perfectly — Mr.  Lin- 
den, the  nephew  of  my  old  patroness,  Mrs.  Minden.  Dear, 
dear,  how  could  I  be  so  forgetful !  I  hope,  by  the  by,  sir, 
that  the  shirts  wore  well.  I  am  thinking  you  will  want 
some  more.  I  have  some  capital  cambric  of  curiously  fine 
quality  and  texture,  from  the  wardrobe  of  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove." 

"  What,  Lady  Waddilove  still !  "  cried  Clarence.  "Why,  my 
good  friend,  you  will  offer  next  to  furnish  me  with  pantaloons 
from  her  ladyship's  wardrobe." 

"Why,  really,  sir,  I  see  you  preserve  your  fine  spirits ;  but  I 
do  think  I  have  one  or  two  pair  of  plum-colored  velvet  inex- 
pressibles, that  passed  into  my  possession  when  her  ladyship's 
husband  died,  which  might,  perhaps,  with  a  leetle  alteration,  fit 
you,  and  at  all  events,  would  be  a  very  elegant  present  from  a 
gentleman  to  his  valet." 

"Well,  Mr.  Brown,  whenever  I  or  my  valet  wear  plum  col- 
ored velvet  breeches,  I  will  certainly  purchase  those  in  your  pos- 
session ;  but  to  change  the  subject,  can  you  inform  me  what 
has  become  of  my  old  host  and  hostess,  the  Copperases  of 
Copperas  Bower?" 

"Oh,  sir,  they  are  the  same  as  ever — nice,  genteel  people 
they  are,  too.  .  Master  Adolphus  has  grown  into  a  fine  young 
gentlemen,  very  nearly  as  tall  as  you  and  /  are.  His  worthy 
father  preserves  his  jovial  vein,  and  is  very  merry  whenever  I 
call  there,  indeed,  it  was  but  last  week  that  he  made  an  ad- 
mirable witticism.  *  Bob,'  said  he — (Tom — you  remember  Tom, 
or  De  Warens,  as  Mrs.  Copperas  was  pleased  to  call  him — Tom  is 
gone) — '  Bob,  have  you  stopt  the  coach  ? '  '  Yes,  sir,'  said  Bob. 
*And  what  coach  is  it?'  asked  Mr.  Copperas.  'It  be  the 
Swallow,  sir,'  said  the  boy.  '  The  Swallow  !  oh,  very  well,' 
cried  Mr.  Copperas  ;  *  then,  now,  having  swallowed  in  the  roll, 
I  will  e'en  roll  in  the  Swallow  !  *  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  sir,  very  face- 
tious, was  it  not  ? " 


932  THE    DISOWNED, 

"  Very,  indeed,"  said  Clarence  ;  "  and  so  Mr.  De  Warens  has 
gone  ;  how  came  that?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  you  see,  the  boy  was  always  of  a  gay  turn,  and 
he  took  to  frisking  it,  as  he  called  it,  of  a  night,  and  so  he  was 
taken  up  for  thrashing  a  watchman,  and  appeared  before  Sir 
John,  the  magistrate,  the  next  morning." 

"  Caractacus  before  Cassar !  "  observed  Linden  :  "  and  what 
said  Caesar?  " 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Mr.  Brown. 

"  I  mean,  what  said  Sir  John  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  asked  him  his  name,  and  Tom,  whose  head  Mrs. 
Copperas  (poor,  good  woman  !)  had  crammed  with  pride 
enough  for  fifty  foot-boys,  replied,  '  De  Warens,'  with  all  the 
air  of  a  man  of  independence.  *  De  Warens  !  '  cried  Sir  Johrf, 
amazed,  'we'll  have  no  De's  here:  take  him  to  Bridewell!* 
and  so,  Mrs.  Copperas,  being  without  a  foot-boy,  sent  for  me, 
and  I  supplied  her — with  Bob!" 

"Out  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove's  wardrobe  too?"  said 
Clarence. 

"  Ha,  ha !  that's  well,  very  well,  sir.  No,  not  exactly,  but 
he  was  a  son  of  her  late  ladyship's  coachman.  Mr.  Cop- 
peras has  had  two  other  servants  of  the  name  of  Bob  before, 
but  this  is  the  biggest  of  all,  so  he  humorously  calls  him 
*  Triple  Bob  Major  !  '  You  observe  that  road  to  the  right, 
sir — it  leads  to  the  mansion  of  an  old  customer  of  mine,  Gen- 
eral Cornelius  St.  Leger  !  many  a  good  bargain  have  I  sold  to 
his  sister.  Heaven  rest  her  I — when  she  died  I  lost  a  good 
friend,  though  she  was  a  little  hot  or  so,  to  be  sure.  But  she 
had  a  relation,  a  young  lady — such  a  lovely,  noble-looking 
creature — it  did  one's  heart,  ay,  and  one's  eyes  also,  good  to 
look  at  her ;  and  she's  gone  too — well,  well,  one  loses  one's 
customers  sadly ;  it  makes  me  feel  old  and  comfortless  to 
think  of  it.  Now,  yonder,  as  far  as  you  can  see  among  those 
distant  woods,  lived  another  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  offered 
to  make  some  very  valuable  presents  upon  his  marriage  with 
tlie  young  lady  I  spoke  of  just  now,  but,  poor  gentleman,  he 
had  not  time  to  accept  them  ;  he  lost  his  property  by  a  law- 
suit, a  few  months  after  he  was  married,  and  a  very  different 
person  now  has  Mordaunt  Court." 

"  Mordaunt  !  "  cried  Clarence  ;  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
Mr.  Mordaunt  has  lost  all  that  property?" 

"  Why,  sir,  one  Mr.  Mordaunt  has  lost  it,  and  another  has 
gained  it ;  but  the  real  Mr.  Mordaunt  has  not  an  acre  in  this 
county  or  elsewhere,  I  fear,  poor  gentleman.     He  is  univer- 


THE    DISOWNED.  23^ 

sally  regretted,  for  he  was  very  good  and  very  generous, 
though  they  say  he  was  also  mighty  proud  and  reserved  ;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  never  perceived  it.  If  one  is  not  proud  one's 
self,  Mr.  Linden,  one  is  very  little  apt  to  be  hurt  by  pride  in 
other  people." 

"And  where  is  Mr.  Algernon  Mordaunt?"  asked  Clarence, 
as  he  recalled  his  interview  with  that  person,  and  the  interest 
with  which  Algernon  then  inspired  him. 

"That,  sir,  is  more  than  any  of  us  can  say.  He  has  disap- 
peared altogether.  Some  declare  that  he  has  gone  abroad, 
others  think  he  is  living  in  Wales  in  the  greatest  poverty. 
However,  wherever  he  is,  I  am  sure  that  he  cannot  be  rich ; 
for  the  lawsuit  quite  ruined  him,  and  the  young  lady  he  mar- 
ried had  not  a  farthing." 

"  Poor  Mordaunt,"  said  Clarence  musingly, 

"  I  think,  sir,  that  the  squire  would  not  be  best  pleased  if  he 
heard  you  pity  him.  I  don't  know  why,  but  he  certainly 
looked,  walked,  and  moved  like  one  whom  you  felt  it  very 
hard  to  pity.  But  I  am  thinking  that  it  is  a  great  shame  that 
the  general  should  not  do  anything  for  Mordaunt's  wife,  for 
she  was  his  own  flesh  and  blood ;  and  I  am  sure  he  had  no 
cause  to  be  angry  at  her  marrying  a  gentleman  of  such  an  old 
family  as  Mr.  Mordaunt.  I  am  a  great  stickler  for  birth, 
sir — I  learnt  that  from  the  late  Lady  W,  *  Brown,'  she  said, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  her  ladyship's  air  when  she  did  say  it, 
*  Brown,  respect  your  superiors,  and  never  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  republicans  and  atheists  ! '  " 

"And  why,"  said  Clarence,  who  was  much  interested  in 
Mordaunt's  fate,  "  did  General  St,  Leger  withhold  his  con- 
sent?" 

**  That  we  don't  exactly  know,  sir  ;  but  some  say  that  Mr. 
Mordaunt  was  very  high  and  proud  with  the  general,  and  the 
general  was,  to  the  full,  as  fond  of  his  purse  as  Mr.  Mordaunt 
could  be  of  his  pedigree — and  so,  I  suppose,  one  pride  clashed 
against  the  other,  and  made  a  quarrel  between  them," 

"  Would  not  the  general,  then,  relent  after  the  mar- 
riage ? " 

"  Oh  no,  sir  ! — for  it  was  a  runaway  affair.  Miss  Diana  St. 
Leger,  his  sister,  was  as  hot  as  ginger  upon  it,  and  fretted  and 
worried  the  poor  general,  who  was  never  of  the  mildest,  about  the 
match,  till  at  last  he  forbade  the  poor  young  lady's  very  name 
to  be  mentioned.  And  when  Miss  Diana  died  about  two  years 
ago,  he  suddenly  introduced  a  tawny  sort  of  cretur,  whom  they 
call  a  mulatto  or  creole,  or  some  such  thing,  into  the  house ; 


234  I'l^^    DISOWNED. 

and  it  seems  that  he  has  had  several  children  by  her,  whom 
he  never  durst  own  during  Miss  Diana's  life,  but  whom  he 
now  declares  to  be  his  heirs.  Well — they  rule  him  with  a  rod 
of  iron,  and  suck  him  as  dry  as  an  orange.  They  are  a  bad, 
griping  set,  all  of  them  ;  and,  I  am  sure,  I  don't  say  so  from 
any  selfish  feeling,  Mr.  Linden,  though  they  have  forbid  me 
the  house,  and  Called  me,  to  my  very  face,  an  old  cheating 
Jew.  Think  of  that,  sir  ! — I,  whom  the  late  Lady  W.,  in  her 
exceeding  friendship  used  to  call  'honest  Brown' — I  whom 
your  worthy — " 

"And  who,"  uncourteously  interrupted  Clarence,  "has  Mor- 
daunt  Court  now?" 

"Why,  a  distant  relation  of  the  last  squire's,  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman who  calls  himself  Mr.  Vavasour  Mordaunt.  I  am 
going  there  to-morrow  morning,  for  I  still  keep  up  a  connection 
with  the  family.  Indeed  the  old  gentleman  bought  a  lovely 
little  ape  of  me,  which  I  did  intend  as  a  present  to  the  late  (as 
I  may  call  him)  Mr.  Mordaunt ;  so,  though  I  will  not  say  I 
exactly  like  him — he  is  a  hard  hand  at  a  bargain — yet  at  least 
I  will  not  deny  him  his  due." 

"  What  sort  of  person  is  he  ?  What  character  does  he  bear  ? " 
asked  Clarence. 

"I  really  find  it  hard  to  answer  that  question,"  said  the 
gossiping  Mr.  Brown.  "  In  great  things  he  is  very  lavish  and 
ostentatious,  but  in  small  things  he  is  very  penurious,  and 
saving,  and  miser-like — and  all  for  one  son,  who  is  deformed 
and  very  sickly.  He  seems  to  doat  on  that  boy  ;  and  now  I 
have  got  two  or  three  little  presents  in  these  bags  for  Mr. 
Henry.  Heaven  forgive  me,  but  when  I  look  at  the  poor 
creature,  with  his  face  all  drawn  up,  and  his  sour,  ill-tempered 
voice,  and  his  limbs  crippled,  I  almost  think  it  would  be  better 
if  he  were  in  his  grave,  and  the  rightful  Mr.  Mordaunt,  who 
would  then  be  the  next  of  kin,  in  his  place." 

"So  then,  there  is  only  this  unhappy  cripple  between  Mr. 
Mordaunt  and  the  property  ? "  said  Clarence. 

**■  Exactly  so,  sir.     But  will  you  let  me  ask  where  you  shall 

put  up  at  W ?     I  will  wait  upon  you,  if  you  will  give  me 

leave,  with  some  very  curious  and  valuable  articles,  highly 
desirable  either  for  yourself  or  for  little  presents  to  your 
friends." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Clarence,   "I  shall  make  no  stay  at 

W ,  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  in  town  next  week. 

Favor  me,  meanwhile,  by  accepting  this  trifle." 

"Nay,  nay,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  pocketing  the  money — ^"'Jb 


THE   DISOWNED.  235 

really  cannot  accept  this — anything  in  the  way  of  exchange — 
a  ring,  or  a  seal,  or — " 

"  No,  no,  not  at  present,"  said  Clarence ;  "  the  night  is 
coming  on,  and  I  shall  make  the  best  of  my  way.  Good-by, 
Mr.  Brown";  and  Clarence  trotted  off  ;  but  he  had  scarce  got 
sixty  yards  before  he  heard  the  itinerant  merchant  cry  out — 
"Mr.  Linden,  Mr.  Linden  !"  and  looking  back,  he  beheld  the 
honest  Brown  putting  his  shaggy  pony  at  full  speed,  in  order 
to  overtake  him  :  so  he  pulled  up. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,  what  do  you  want  ?"  , 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,  you  gave  me  no  exact  answer  about  the 
plum-colored  velvet  inexprj^ssibles,"  said  Mr.  Brown. 


CHAPTER  LII. 
"  Ate  W«  contemned  ?  " —  The  Doable  Marriage. 

It  was  dusk  when  Clarence  arrived  at  the  very  same  inn  at 
which^  more  than  five  years  ago,  he  had  assumed  his  present 
name.  As  he  recalled  the  note  addressed  to  him,  and  the  sum 
(his  whole  fortune)  which  it  contained,  he  could  not  help 
smiling  at  the  change  his  lot  had  since  then  undergone  :  but 
the  smile  soon  withered  when  he  thought  of  the  kind  and 
paternal  hand  from  which  that  change  had  proceeded,  and 
knew  that  his  gratitude  was  no  longer  availing,  and  that  that 
hand,  in  pouring  its  last  favors  upon  him,  had  become  cold. 
He  was  ushered  into  No.  Four,  and  left  to  his  meditations  till 
bed-time. 

The  next  day  he  recommenced  his  journey.  Westborough 
Park  was,  though  in  another  county,  within  a  short  ride  of 

W ;  but,  as  he  approached  it,  the  character  of  the  scenery 

became  essentially  changed.  Bare,  bold,  and  meagre,  the 
features  of  the  country  bore  somewhat  of  a  Scottish  character. 
On  the  right  side  of  the  road  was  a  precipitous  and  perilous 
descent,  and  some  workmen  were  placing  posts  along  a  path 
for  foot-passengers  on  that  side  nearest  the  carriage-road, 
probably  with  a  view  to  preserve  unwary  coachmen  or  eques- 
trians from  the  dangerous  vicinity  to  the  descent,  which  a  dark 
night  might  cause  them  to  incur.  As  Clarence  looked  idly  on 
the  workmen,  and  painfully  on  the  crumbling  and  fearful 
descent  I  have  described,  he  little  thought  that  that  spot 
would,  a  few  years  after,  become  the  scene  of  a  catastrophe 
affecting  in  the  most  powerful  degree  the  interests  of  his  future 
life.    Our  young  traveller  put  up  his  horse  at  a  small  inn, 


236  THE    DISOWNED. 

bearing  the  Westborough  arms,  and  situated  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  park  gates.  Now  that  he  was  so  near  his  mistress — • 
now  that  less  than  an  hour,  than  the  fourth  part  of  an  hour, 
might  place  him  before  her,  and  decide  his  fate,  his  heart, 
which  had  hitherto  sustained  him,  grew  faint,  and  presented 
first  fear,  then  anxiety,  and,  at  last,  despondency  to  his  imagi- 
nation and  forebodings. 

"At  all  events,"  said  he,  "I  will  see  her  alone  before  I  will 
confer  with  her  artful  and  proud  mother,  or  her  cipher  of  a 
father.  I  will  then  tell  her  all  my  history,  and  open  to  her  all 
my  secrets  :  I  will  only  conceal  from  her  my  present  fortunes, 
for,  even  if  rumor  should  have  informed  her  of  them,  it  will 
be  easy  to  give  the  report  no  sanction  ;  I  have  a  right  to  that 
trial.  When  she  is  convinced  that,  at  least,  neither  my  birth 
nor  character  can  disgrace  her,  I  shall  see  if  her  love  can 
enable  her  to  overlook  my  supposed  poverty,  and  to  share  my 
uncertain  lot.  If  so,  there  will  be  some  triumph  in  undeceiv- 
ing her  error  and  rewarding  her  generosity :  if  not,  I  shall  be 
saved  from  involving  my  happiness  with  that  of  one  who  looks 
only  to  my  worldly  possessions.  I  owe  it  to  her,  it  is  true,  to 
show  her  that  I  am  no  low-born  pretender  ;  but  I  owe  it  also  to 
myself  to  ascertain  if  my  own  individual  qualities  are  suffi- 
cient to  gain  her  hand."  .; 

Fraught  with  these  ideas,  which  were  riatural  enough  to  a 
a  man  whose  peculiar  circumstances  were  well  calculated  to 
make  him  feel  rather  soured  and  suspicious,  and  whose  pride 
had  been  severely  wounded  by  the  contempt  with  which  his 
letter  had  been  treated — Clarence  walked  into  the  park,  and, 
hovering  around  the  house,  watched  and  waited  that  opportu- 
nity of  addressing  Lady  Flora,  which  he  trusted  her  habits  of 
walking  would  afford  him  ;  but  hours  rolled  away,  the  evening 
set  in,  and  Lady  Flora  had  not  once  quitted  the  house. 

More  disappointed  and  sick  at  heart  than  he  liked  tb.CQiV 
fess,  Clarence  returned  to  his  inn,  took  his  solitary  meal,  and 
strolling  once  more  into  the  park,  watched  beneath  the  windows 
till  midnight,  endeavoring  to  guess  which  were  the  casements 
of  her  apartments,  and  feeling  his  heart  beat  high  at  every  light 
which  flashed  forth,  and  disappeared,  and  every  form  Avhich 
flitted  across  the  windows  of  the  great  staircase.  Little  did 
Lady  Flora,  as  she  sat  in  her  room  alone,  and,  in  tears,  mused 
over  Clarence's  fancied  worthlessness  and  infidelity,  and  told 
her  heart  again  and  again  that  she  loved  no  more — little  did 
she  know  whose  eye  kept  vigils  without,  or  whose  feet  brushed 
away  the  rank  dews  beneath  her  windovvs,  or  w^hose  thoughts, 


THE   DISOWNED.  237 

though  not  altogether  unmingled  with  reproach,  were  riveted 
witli  all  the  ardor  of  a  young  and  first  love  upon  her. 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Linden  that  he  had  no  opportunity  of 
personally  pleading  his  suit ;  his  altered  form  and  faded  coun- 
tenance would  at  least  have  insured  a  hearing  and  an  interest 
for  his  honest  though  somewhat  haughty  sincerity  ;  but  though 
that  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  were  passed  in  the  most 
anxious  and  unremitting  vigilance,  Clarence  only  once  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Lady  Flora,  and  then  she  was  one  amidst  a  large 
party  ;  and  Clarence,  fearful  of  a  premature  and  untimely  dis- 
covery, was  forced  to  retire  into  the  thicknesses  of  the  park, 
and  lose  the  solitary  reward  of  his  watches  almost  as  soon  as  he 
had  won  it. 

Wearied  and  racked  by  his  suspense,  and  despairing  of  ob- 
taining any  favorable  opportunity  for  an  interview,  without  such 
a  request,  Clarence  at  last  resolved  to  write  to  Lady  Flora, 
entreating  her  assent  to  a  meeting,  in  which  he  pledged  himself 
to  clear  up  all  that  had  hitherto  seemed  doubtful  in  his  conduct 
or  mysterious  in  his  character.  Though  respectful,  urgent,  an<i 
bearmg  the  impress  of  truth  and  feeling,  the  tone  of  the  letter 
was  certainly  that  of  a  man  who  conceived  he  had  a  right  to  a 
little  resentment  for  the  past,  and  a  little  confidence  for  the 
futtsre.  It  was  what  might  well  be  written  by  one  who  imag- 
ined his  affection  had  once  been  returned,  but  would  as  cer- 
tainly have  been  deemed  very  presumptuous  by  a  lady  who 
thought  that  the  affection  itself  was  a  liberty. 

Having  penned  this  epistle,  the  next  care  was  how  to  convey 
it.  After  much  deliberation,  it  was  at  last  committed  to  the 
care  of  a  little  girl,  the  daughter  of  the  lodge-keeper,  whoih 
Lady  Flora  thrice  a  week  personally  instructed  in  the  mysteries 
of  spelling,  reading,  and  calligraphy.  With  many  injunctions 
to  deliver  the  letter  only  to  the  hands  of  the  beautiful  teacher, 
Clarence  trusted  his  despatches  to  the  little  scholar,  and,  with 
a  trembling  frame  and  wistful  eye,  watched  Susan  take  her 
road,  with  her  green  satchel  and  her  shining  cheeks,  to  the 
great  house. 

One  hour,  two  hours,  three  hours,  passed,  and  the  messenger 
had  not  returned.  Restless  and  impatient,  Clarence  walked 
back  to  his  inn,  and  had  not  been  there  many  minutes  before  a 
servant,  in  the  Westborough  livery,  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
humble  hostelry,  and  left  the  following  letter  for  his  perusal 
and  gratification  : 
;'Sir: 

"The  letter  intended  for  my  daughter,  has  just  been  given  to 


338  THE   DISOWNED 

me  by  Lady  Westbdrough.  I  know  not  what  gave  rise  to  the 
language,  or  the  very  extraordinary  request  for  a  clandestine 
meeting,  which  you  have  thought  proper  to  address  to  Lady 
Flora  Ardenne  ;  but  you  will  allow  me  to  observe,  that  if  you 
intend  to  confer  upon  my  daughter  the  honor  of  a  matrimonial 
proposal,  she  fully  concurs  with  me  and  her  mother  in  the  neg- 
ative which  I  feel  necessitated  to  put  upon  your  obliging  offer. 

"I  need  not  add  that  all  correspondence  with  my  daughter 
must  close  here.     I  have  the  honor  to  be, — Sir, 
"  Your  very  obedient  servant, 

"  Westborough. 

"Westborough  Park. 
"To  Clarence  Linden,  Esq." 

Had  Clarence's  blood  been  turned  to  fire,  his  veins  *;<)uld  not 
have  swelled  and  burnt  with  a  fiercer  heat  than  they  did,  as  he 
read  the  above  letter — a  masterpiece,  perhaps,  in  the  line  of 
what  may  be  termed  the  "d — d  civil"  of  epistolary  favors.    ,  ; 

"Insufferable  arrogance!"  he  muttered  within  his  teeth. 
^'I  will  live  to  repay  it.  Perfidious,  unfeeling  woman — what 
an  escape  I  have  had  of  her  ! — Now,  now,  I  am  on  the  world, 
and  alone,  thank  Heaven.  I  will  accept  Aspeden's  offer  and 
leave  this  country  ;  when  I  return,  it  shall  not  be  as  a  humble 
suitor  to  Lady  Flora  Ardenne.  Pish  !  how  the  name  sickens 
me  :  but  come,  I  have  a  father — at  least  a  nominal  one.  He  is 
old  and  weak,  and  may  die  before  I  return.  I  will  see  him 
once  more,  and  then,  hey  for  Italy  !  Oh  !  I  am  so  happy — so 
happy  at  my  freedom  and  escape.  What,  ho! — waiter! — «>«y 
Iiorse  instantly  !  " 


CHAPTER  LIU. 

Lucr. — What  has  thy  father  done  ? 
Beat. — What  have  I  done  ? 
Am  I  not  innocent  ? —  The  Cenci. 

The  twilight  was  darkening  slowly  over  a  room  of  noble 
dimensions,  and  costly  fashion.  Although  it  was  the  height  of 
summer,  a  low  fire  burnt  in  the  grate  ;  and,  stretching  his  hands 
over  the  feeble  flame,  an  old  man,  of  about  sixty,  sate  in  an 
arm-chair  curiously  carved  with  armorial  beatings.  The  dim, 
yet  fitful  flame,  cast  its  upward  light  upon  a  countenance  stern, 
haughty,  and  repellent,  where  the  passions  of  youth  and  man- 
hood had  dug  themselves  graves  in  many  an  iron  line  and  deep 
furrow ;  the  forehead,  though  high,  was  narrow  and  compressed ; 


THE  DISOWNED.  25$ 

the  brows  sullenly  overhung  the  eyes,  and  the  nose,  which  was 
singularly  prominent  and  decided,  age  had  sharpened,  and 
brought  out,  as  it  were,  till  it  gave  a  stubborn  and  very  for- 
bidding expression  to  the  more  sunken  features  over  which  it 
rose  with  exaggerated  dignity.  Two  bottles  of  wine,  a  few 
dried  preserves,  and  a  water-glass,  richly  chased,  and  orna- 
mented with  gold,  showed  that  the  inmate  of  the  apartment 
had  passed  the  hour  of  the  principal  repast,  and  his  loneliness, 
at  a  time  usually  social,  seemed  to  indicate  that  few  olive 
branches  were  accustomed  to  overshadow  his  table. 

The  windows  of  the  dining-room  reached  to  the  ground,  and 
without  the  closing  light  just  enabled  one  to  see  a  thick  copse 
of  wood,  which,  at  a  very  brief  interval  of  turf,  darkened  im- 
mediately opposite  the  house.  While  the  old  man  was  thus 
bending  over  the  fire  and  conning  his  evening  contemplations, 
a  figure  stole  from  the  copse  I  have  mentioned,  and,  approach- 
ing the  window,  looked  pryingly  into  the  apartment  ;  then 
with  a  noiseless  hand  it  opened  the  spring  of  the  casement, 
which  was  framed  on  a  peculiar  and  old-fashioned  construction, 
that  required  a  practised  and  familiar  touch — entered  the 
apartment,  and  crept  on,  silent  and  unperceived  by  the  in- 
habitant of  the  room,  till  it  paused  and  stood  motionless  with 
folded  arms,  scarce  three  steps  behind  the  high  back  of  the  old 
man's  chair. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  latter  moved  from  his  position,  and 
slowly  rose  ;  the  abruptness  with  which  he  turned  brought  the 
dark  figure  of  the  intruder  full  and  suddenly  before  him  :  he 
started  back,  and  cried  in  an  alarmed  tone — "  Who  is  there  ? " 

The  stranger  made  no  reply. 

The  old  man,  in  a  voice  in  which  anger  and  pride  mingled 
with  fear,  repeated  the  question.  The  figure  advanced,  dropped 
the  cloak  in  which  it  was  wrapped,  and  presenting  the  features 
of  Clarence  Linden,  said,  in  a  low  but  clear  tone: 

"  Your  son." 

The  old  man  dropped  his  hold  of  the  bell-rope,  which  he  had 
just  befare  seized,  and  leaned  as  if  for  support  against  the  oak 
wainscot  ;  Clarence  approached. 

"Yes!"  said  he  mournfully,  "your  unfortunate,  your  offend- 
ing, but  your  guiltless  son.  More  than  five  years  I  have  been 
banished  from  your  house.  I  have  been  thrown,  while  yet  a 
boy,  without  friends,  without  guidance,  without  name,  upon 
the  wide  world,  and  to  the  mercy  of  chance.  I  come  now  to 
you  as  a  man,  claiming  no  assistance  and  uttering  no  reproach, 
but  to  tell  you  that  him  whom  an  earthly  father  rejected,  God 


24C)'  THE    DISOWNED. 

has  preserved  ;  that  without  one  unworthy  or  debasing  act,  1 
have  won  for  myself  the  friends  who  support,  and  the  \vealth 
which  dignifies,  life, — since  it  renders  it  independent.  Through 
all  the  disadvantages  I  have  struggled  against,  I  have  preserved 
unimpaired  my  honor,  and  unsullied  my  conscience;  you  have 
disowned,  but  you  might  have  claimed  me  without  shame. 
Father,  these  hands  are  clean  ! " 

A  strong  and  evident  emotion  shook  the  old  man's  frame. 
He  raised  himself  to  his  full  height,  which  was  still  tall  and 
commanding,  and  in  a  voice,  the  natural  harshness  of  which 
was  rendered  yet  more  repellent  by  passion,  replied,  "  Boy  ! 
Your  presumption  is  insufferable.  What  to  me  is  your  wretched 
fate?  Go — go — go  to  your  miserable  mother;  find  her  out — 
claim  kindred  there  ;  live  together,  toil  together,  rot  together  ; 
but  come  not  to  me  ! — disgrace  to  my  house — ask  not  admit- 
tance to  my  affections  ;  the  law  may  give  you  my  name,  but 
sooner  would  I  be  torn  piece-meal  than  own  your  right  to  it. 
If  you  want  money,  name  the  sum,  take  it  ;  cut  up  my  fortune 
to  shreds — seize  my  property — revel  on  it — but  come  not  here. 
This  house  is  sacred  ;  pollute  it  not  :  I  disown  you  ;  I  discard 
you  ;  I — ay,  I  detest — I  loathe  you  !  " 

And  with  these  words,  which  came  forth  as  if  heaved  from 
the  inmost  heart  of  the  speaker,  who  shook  with  the  fury  he 
endeavored  to  stifle,  he  fell  back  into  his  chair,  and  fixed  his 
eyes,  which  glared  fearfully  through  the  increasing  darkness, 
upon  Linden,  who  stood  high,  erect,  and  sorrowfully  before  him. 

"Alas,  my  lord!"  said  Clarence,  with  mournful  bitterness, 
"have  not  the  years  which  have  seared  your  form  and  whitened 
your  locks  brought  some  meekness  to  your  rancor,  some  mercy 
to  your  injustice,  for  one  whose  only  crime  against  you  seems  to 
have  been  his  birth.  But  I  said  I  came  not  to  reproach— nor* 
do  I.  Many  a  bitter  hour,  many  a  pang  of  shame,  and  mor- 
tification, and  misery,  which  have  made  scars  in  my  heart  that 
will  never  wear  away,  my  wrongs  have  cost  me — but  let  them 
pass.  Let  them  not  swell  your  future  and  last  account  when- 
ever it  be  required.  I  am  about  to  leave  this  country,  with  a 
heavy  and  foreboding  heart ;  we  may  never  meet  again  on 
earth.  I  have  no  longer  any  wish,  any  chance  of  resuming 
the  name  you  have  deprived  me  of.  I  shall  never  thrust  my- 
self on  your  relationship,  or  cross  your  view.  Lavish  your 
wealth  upon  him  whom  you  have  placed  so  immeasurably 
above  me  in  your  affections.  But  I  have  not  deserved  your 
curse,  father  ;  give  me  your  blessing,  and  let  me  depart  in 
peace." 


THE   DISOWNED.  24I 

"  Peace  !  and  what  peace  have  I  had  ? — what  respite  from 
gnawing  shame,  the  foulness  and  leprosy  of  humiliation  and 
reproach,  since — since —  ?  But  this  is  not  your  fault,  you  say  : 
no,  no — it  is  another's  ;  and  you  are  only  the  mark  of  my 
stigma,  my  disgrace,  not  its  perpetrator.  Ha  !  a  nice  distinc- 
tion, truly.  My  blessing,  you  say  !  Come,  kneel ;  kneel,  boy, 
and  have  it !  " 

Clarence  approached,  and  stood  bending  and  bareheaded 
before  his  father,  but  he  knelt  not. 

"  Why  do  you  not  kneel  ?"  cried  the  old  man  vehemently. 

"  It  is  the  attitude,  of  the  injurer,  not  of  the  injured  !  "  said 
Clarence  firmly. 

"Injured  ! — insolent  reprobate — is  it  not  I  who  am  injured? 
Do  you  not  read  it  in  my  brow — here,  here?"  and  the  old 
man  struck  his  clenched  hand  violently  against  his  temples. 
"Was  I  not  injured  (he  continued,  sinking  his  'voice  into  a 
key  unnaturally  low)  ?  "did  I  not  trust  implicitly?  Did  I  not 
give  up  my  heart  without  suspicion  ?  Was  I  not  duped  deli- 
ciously  ?  Was  I  not  kind  enough,  blind  enough,  fool  enough — 
and  was  I  not  betrayed — damnably,  filthily  betrayed  ?  But 
that  was  no  injury.  Was  not  my  old  age  turned,  a  sapless  tree, 
a  poisoned  spring  ?  Were  not  my  days  made  a  curse  to  me, 
and  my  nights  a  torture  ?  Was  I  not,  am  I  not,  a  mock,  and  a 
byword,  and  a  miserable,  impotent,  unavenged  old  man!  In- 
jured !  But  this  is  no  injury  !  Boy,  boy,  what  are  your  wrongs 
to  mine  ?" 

"  Father  ! "  cried  Clarence  deprecatingly,  "  I  am  not  the 
cause  of  your  wrongs  :  is  it  just  that  the  innocent  should  suffer 
for  the  guilty  ? " 

"  Speak  not  in  that  voice  ! "  cried  the  old  man — "  that  voice  ! 
Fie,  fie  on  it.  Hence  !  away !  away,  boy  ! — why  tarry  you  ! 
— My  son,  and  have  that  voice  ? — Pooh,  you  are  not  my  son. 
Ha,  ha  ! — my  son  !  " 

"  What  am  I,  then  ? "  said  Clarence  soothingly  ;  for  he  was 
shocked  and  grieved,  rather  than  irritated,  by  a  wrath  which 
partook  so  strongly  of  insanity. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  cried  the  father — "  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
are — you  are  my  curse  !  " 

"Farewell!"  said  Clarence,  much  agitated,  and  retiring  to 
the  window  by  which  he  had  entered  ;  "may  your  heart  never 
smite  you  for  your  cruelty  !  Farewell !  may  the  blessing  you 
have  withheld  from  me  be  with  yoii  !  " 

"Stop!  stay!"  cried  the  father;  for  his  fury  was  checked 
for  one  moment,  and  his  nature,  fierce  as  it  was,  relented  ;  but 


242  THE    DlSOWKEiJ. 

Clarence  was  already  gone,  and  the  miserable  old  man  was  left 
alone  to  darkness,  and  solitude,  and  the  passions  which  can 
make  a  hell  of  the  human  heart ! 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

"  Sed  quae  prseclara,  et  prospera  tanti, 
Ut  rebus  Isetis  par  sit  mensuramalorum."*-WJ'UVENAL. 

We  are  now  transported  to  a  father  and  a  son  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent stamp. 

It  was  about  the  hour  of  one,  p.  m.,  when  the  door  of  Mr. 
Vavasour  Mordaunt's  study  was  thrown  open,  and  the  servant 
announced  Mr.   Brown. 

"  Your  servant,  sir — your  servant,  Mr.  Henry,"  said  the 
itinerant,  bowing  low  to  the  two  gentlemen  thus  addressed. 
The  former,  Mr.  Vavasour  Mordaunt,  might  be  about  the  sanoe 
age  as  Linden's  father.  A  shrewd,  sensible,  ambitious  man  of 
the  world,  he  had  made  his  way  from  the  state  of  a  younger 
brother,  with  no  fortune  and  very  little  interest,  to  considerable 
wealth,  besides  the  property  he  had  acquired  by  law,  and  to  a 
degree  of  consideration  for  general  influence  and  personal 
ability,  which,  considering  he  had  no  official  or  parliamentary 
rank,  very  few  of  his  equals  enjoyed.  Persevering,  steady, 
crafty,  and  possessing,  to  an  eminent  degree,  that  happy  art  of 
^^ canting"  which  opens  the  readiest  way  to  character  and  conse- 
quence, the  rise  and  reputation  of  Mr.  Vavasour  Mordaunt 
appeared  less  to  be  wondered  at  than  envied  ;  yet,  even  envy 
was  only  for  those  who  could  not  look  beyond  the  surface  of 
things.  He  was  at  heart  an  anxious  and  unhappy  man.  The 
evil  we  do  in  the  world  is  often  paid  back  in  the  bosom  of 
home.  Mr.  VavasoUr  Mordaunt  was,  like  Crauford,  what 
might  be  termed  a  mistaken  utilitarian  ;  he  had  lived  utterly 
and  invariably  for  self  ;  but  instead  of  uniting  self-interest 
with  the  interest  of  others,  he  considered  them  as  perfectly 
incompatible  ends.  But  character  was  among  the  greatest  of 
all  objects  to  him  ;  so  that,  though  he  had  rarely  deviated  into 
what  might  fairly  be  termed  a  virtue,  he  had  never  transgressed 
what  might  rigidly  be  called  a  propriety.  He  had  not  the 
aptitude,  the  wit,  the  moral  audacity  of  Crauford  ;  he  could 
not  have  indulged  in  one  offence  with  impunity,  by  a  mingled 

*  But  what  excellence  or  prosperity  so  great  that  there  should  be  an   equal  measure  of 
^ils  for  our  joys. 


THE    DISOWNED.  243 

courage  and  hypocrisy  in  veiling  others — he  was  the  slave  of 
the  forms  which  Crauford  subjugated  to  himself.  He  was  only 
so  far  resembling  Crauford,  as  one  man  of  the  world  resembles 
another  in  selfishness  and  dissimulation:  he  could  be  dishonest, 
not  villainous,  much  less  a  villain  upon  system.  He  was  a 
canter,  Crauford  a  hypocrite :  his  uttered  opinions  were,  like 
Crauford's,  differing  from  his  conduct  ;  but  he  believed  the 
truth  of  the  former  even  while  sinning  in  the  latter  ;  he  canted 
so  sincerely  that  the  tears  came  in  his  eyes  when  he  spoke. 
Never  was  there  a  man  more  exemplary  in  words  ;  people  who 
departed  from  him  went  away  impressed  with  the  idea  of  an 
excess  of  honor— a  plethora  of  conscience.  "It  was  almost  a 
pity,"  said  they,  "that  Mr.  Vavasour  was  so  romantic"; 
and  thereupon  they  named  him  an  executor  to  their  wills 
and  guardian  to  their  sons.  None  but  he  could,  in  carrying 
the  lawsuit  against  Mordaunt,  have  lost  nothing  in  reputation 
by  success.  But  there  was  something  so  specious,  so  ostensi- 
bly fair  in  his  manner  and  words,  while  he  was  ruining  Mor- 
daunt, that  it  was  impossible  not  to  suppose  he  was  actuated 
by  the  purest  motives,  the  most  holy  desire  for  justice — not  for 
himself,  he  said,  for  he  was  old,  and  already  rich  enough, — but 
for  his  son  !  From  that  son  came  the  punishment  of  all  his 
offenses — the  black  drop  at  the  bottom  of  a  bowl,  seemingly  so 
sparkling.  To  him.  as  the  father  grew  old,  and  desirous  of 
quiet,  Vavasour  had  transferred  all  his  selfishness,  as  if  to  a 
securer  and  more  durable  firm.  The  child,  when  young,  had 
been  singularly  handsome  and  intelligent ;  but  Vavasour,  as  he 
toiled  and  toiled  at  his  ingenious  and  graceful  cheateries, 
pleased  himself  with  anticipating  the  importance  and  advan- 
tages  the  heir  to  his  labor  would  enjoy.  For  that  son  he  cer- 
tainly had  persevered  more  arduously  than  otherwise  he  might 
have  done  in  the  lawsuit,  of  the  justice  of  which  he  better 
satisfied  the  world  than  his  own  breast ;  for  that  son  he  rejoiced 
as  he  looked  arouixi  the  stately  halls  and  noble  domain  from 
which  the  rightful  possessor  had  been  driven  :  for  that  son  he 
extended  economy  into  penuriousness.  and  hope  into  anxiety  ; 
and,  too  old  to  expect  much  more  from  the  world  himself,  for 
that  son  he  anticipated,  with  a  wearing  and  feverish  fancy, 
whatever  wealth  could  purchase,  beauty  win,  or  intellect  com- 
mand. 

But  as  if,  like  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  there  was  something  in 
Mordaunt  Court  which  contained  a  penalty  and  a  doom  for  the 
usurper,  no  sooner  had  Vavasour  possessed  himself  of  his  kins- 
man's estate,  than  the  prosperity  of  his  life  dried  and  withered 


244  THE    DISOWNED. 

away,  like  Jonah's  gourd,  in  a  single  night.  His  son,  at  the 
age  of  thirteen,  fell  from  a  scaffold,  on  which  the  workmen  were 
making  some  extensive  alterations  in  the  old  house,  and  be- 
came a  cripple  and  a  valetudinarian  for  life.  But  still  Vava- 
sour, always  of  a  sanguine  temperament,  cherished  a  hope  that 
surgical  assistance  might  restore  him  :  from  place  to  place, 
from  professor  to  professor,  from  quack  to  quack,  he  carried 
the  unhappy  boy,  and  as  each  remedy  failed,  he  was  only  the 
more  impatient  to  devise  a  new  one.  But  as  it  was  the  mind 
as  well  as  person  of  his  son  in  which  the  father  had  stored  up 
his  ambition  ;  so,  in  despite  of  this  fearful  accident,  and  the 
wretched  health  by  which  it  was  followed.  Vavasour  never  suf- 
fered his  son  to  rest  from  the  tasks,  and  tuitions,  and  lectures 
of  the  various  masters  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  The  poor 
boy,  it  is  true,  deprived  of  physical  exertion,  and  naturally  of 
a  serious  disposition,  required  very  little  urging  to  second  his 
father's  wishes  for  his  mental  improvement  ;  and  as  the  tutors 
were  all  of  the  orthodox  university  calibre,  who  imagine  that 
there  is  no  knowledge  (but  vanity)  in  any  other  works  than  those 
in  which  their  own  education  has  consisted  ;  so  Henry  Vava- 
sour became  at  once  the  victor  and  victim  of  Bentleys  and  Scali- 
gers,  word-weighers  and  metre-scanners,  till,  utterly  ignorant  of 
everything  which  could  have  softened  his  temper,  dignified  his 
misfortunes,  and  reconciled  him  to  his  lot,  he  was  sinking  fast 
into  the  grave,  soured  by  incessant  pain  into  moroseness,  envy, 
and  bitterness ;  exhausted  by  an  unwholesome  and  useless 
application  to  unprofitable  studies  ;  an  excellent  scholar  (as  it 
is  termed),  with  the  worst  regulated  and  worst  informed  mind 
of  almost  any  of  his  contemporaries  equal  to  himself  in  the  ad- 
vantages of  ability,  original  goodness  of  disposition,  and  the 
costly  and  profuse  expenditure  of  education. 

But  the  vain  father,  as  he  heard  on  all  sides  of  his  son's  tal- 
ents, saw  nothing  sinister  in  their  direction  ;  and  though  the 
poor  boy  grew  daily  more  contracted  in  mind  and  broken  in 
frame,  Vavasour  yet  hugged  more  and  more  closely  to  his  breast 
the  hope  of  ultimate  cure  for  the  latter,  and  future  glory  for  the 
former.  So  he  went  on  heaping  money,  and  extending  acres, 
and  planting,  and  improving,  and  building,  and  hoping,  and  an^ 
ticipating,  for  one  at  whose  very  feet  the  grave  was  already 
dug ! 

But  we  left  Mr  Brown  in  the  study,  making  his  bow  and  pro- 
fessions of  service  to  Mr.  Vavasour  Mordaunt  and  his  son. 

"Good  day,  honest  Brown,"  said  the  former,  a  middle-sized 
and  rather  stout  man,  with  a  well-powdered  head,  and  a  sharp, 


THE    DISOWNED.  2^ 

shrewd,  and  very  sallow  countenance;  "good  day — have  you 
brought  any  of  the  foreign  liqueurs  you  spoke  of,  for  Mr.  Henry  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have  some  curiously  fine  eau  d'or  and  liqueur  des 
PeSy  besides  the  tnarasquino  and  curagoa.  The  late  Lady  Waddi- 
love  honored  my  taste  in  these  matters  with  her  especial  appro- 
bation." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Vavasour,  turning  to  his  son,  who  lay 
extended  on  the  couch,  reading,  not  the  Prometheus  (that  most 
noble  drama  ever  created),  but  the  notes  upon  it — "  my  dear  boy, 
as  you  are  fond  of  liqueurs,  I  desired  Brown  to  get  some  pecu- 
liarly fine  ;  perhaps — " 

"  Pish  !  "  said  the  son,  fretfully  interrupting  him,  "  do,  I  be- 
seech you,  take  your  hand  off  my  shoulder.  See,  now  you  have 
made  me  lose  my  place.  I  really  do  wish  you  would  leave  me 
alone  for  one  moment  in  the  day." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Henry,"  said  the  father,  looking  rever- 
ently on  the  Greek  characters  which  his  son  preferred  to  the 
newspaper.  "  It  is  very  vexatious,  I  own  ;  but  do  taste  these 
liqueurs.  Dr.  Lukewarm  said  you  might  have  everything  you 
liked—" 

"  But  quiet !  "  muttered  the  cripple. 

"1  assure  you,  sir,"  said  the  wandering  merchant,  "that  they 
are  excellent  ;  allow  me,  Mr.  Vavasour  Mordaunt,  to  ring  for  a 
corkscrew.  I  really  do  think,  sir,  that  Mr.  Henry  looks  much 
better — I  declare  he  has  quite  a  color." 

"No,  indeed!"  said  Vavasour,  eagerly.     "Well  it  seems  to 

me,  too,  that  he  is  getting  better.     I  intend  to  try  Mr.  E 's 

patent  collar  in  a  day  or  two ;  but  that  will  in  some  measure 
prevent  his  reading.  A  great  pity  :  for  I  am  very  anxious 
that  he  should  lose  no  time  in  his  studies  just  at  present.  He 
goes  to  Cambridge  in  October." 

"  Indeed,  sir.  Well,  he  will  set  the  town  in  a  blaze,  I  guess, 
sir  \  Everybody  says  what  a  fine  scholar  Mr.  Henry  is — even 
in  the  servants'  hall  ! "  ' 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Vavasour,  gratified  even  by  this  praise,  "he 
is  clever  enough,  Brown  ;  and,  what  is  more"  (and  here  Vava- 
sour's looks  grew  sanctified),  "he  is  good  enough.  His  princi- 
ples do  equal  honor  to  his  head  and  heart.  He  would  be  no 
son  of  mine  if  he  were  not  as  much  the  gentleman  as  the 
scholar," 

The  youth  lifted  his  heavy  and  distorted  face  from  his  book, 
and  a  sneer  raised  his  lip  for  a  moment ;  but  a  sudden  spasm 
of  pain  seizing  him,  the  expression  clianged,  and  Vavasour, 
whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  hastened  to  his  assistance. 


246  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  Throw  open  the  window,  Brown  ;  ring  the  bell — call — ** 

"Pooh,  father,"  cried  the  boy,  with  a  sharp,  angry  voice,  "I 
am  not  going  to  die  yet,  nor  faint  either  ;  but  it  is  all  your  fault. 
If  you  will  have  those  odious,  vulgar  people  here  {ox your  own 
pleasure,  at  least  suffer  me,  another  day,  to  retire." 

"  My  son,  my  son  !  "  said  the  grieved  father,  in  reproachful 
anger,  "  it  was  my  anxiety  to  give  you  some  trifling  enjoyment 
that  brought  Brown  here — you  must  be  sensible  of  that !  " 

"You  tease  me  to  death,"  grumbled  the  peevish  unfortunate. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "shall  I  leave  the  bottles  here.> 
or  do  you  please  that  I  should  give  them  to  the  butler?  I  see 
that  I  am  displeasing  and  troublesome  to  Mr.  Henry ;  but  as 
my  worthy  friend  and  patroness,  the  late  Lady — " 

Go — go — honest  Brown  ?  "  said  Vavasour  (who  desired  every 
man's  good  word) — "go  and  give  \\\t liqueurs  to  Preston,  Mr. 
Henry  is  extremely  sorry  that  he  is  too  unwell  to  see  you  now; 
and  I — I  have  the  heart  of  a  father  for  his  sufferings." 

Mr.  Brown  withdrew.  "'Odious  and  vulgar,'"  said  he  to 
himself,  in  a  little  fury — for  Mr.  Brown  peculiarly  valued  him- 
self on  his  gentility — "'odious  and  vulgar  ! '  To  think  of  his 
little  lordship  uttering  such  shameful  words  !  However,  I  will 
go  into  the  steward's  room,  and  abuse  him  there.  But,  I  suppose, 
I  shall  get  no  dinner  in  this  house — no,  not  so  much  as  a  crust  of 
bread  ;  for  while  the  old  gentleman  is  launching  out  into  such 
prodigious  expenses  on  a  great  scale — making  heathenish  tem- 
ples, and  spoiling  the  fine  old  house  with  his  new  picture  gallery 
and  nonsense — he  is  so  close  in  small  matters,  that  I  warrant  not 
a  candle-end  escapes  him — griping,  and  pinching,  and  squeez- 
ing with  one  hand,  and  scattering  money,  as  if  it  were  dirt,  with 
the  other — and  all  for  that  cross,  ugly,  deformed,  little  whipper- 
snapper  of  a  son,  '  Odious  and  vulgar,' indeed  !  What  shocking 
language  !  Mr.  Algernon  Mordaunt  would  never  have  made  use 
of  such  words,  I  know.  And  bless  me,  now  I  tliink  of  it,  I 
wonder  where  that  poor  gentleman  is — the  young  heir  here  is 
not  long  for  this  world,  I  can  see  ;  and  who  know  but  what  Mr, 
Algernon  maybe  in  great  distress  ;  and  I  am  sure,  as  far  as  four 
hundred  pounds,  or  even  a  thousand,  go,  I  would  not  mind 
lending  it  him,  only  upon  the  post-o])its  of  Squire  Vavasour  and 
his  hopeful.  I  like  doing  a  kind  thing;  and  Mr.  Algernon  was 
always  very  good  to  me ;  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  care  about  the 
security,  thougli  I  think  it  will  be  as  sure  as  sixpence ;  for  the 
old  gentleman  must  be  past  sixty,  and  the  young  one  is  the  worse 
life  of  the  two.  And  when  he's  gone — what  relation  so  near  as 
Mr.  Algernon?    We  should  help  one   another — it  is  but  one's 


THE   DISOWNED.  547 

<luty  :  and  if  he  is  in  great  distress  he  would  not  mind  a  hand- 
some premium.  Well,  nobody  can  say  Morris  Brown  is  not  as 
charitable  as  the  best  Christian  breathing  ;  and,  as  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove  very  justly  observed,  'Brown,  believe  me,  a  prudent 
risk  is  the  surest  gain  !'  I  will  lose  no  time  in  finding  the  late 
squire  out." 

Muttering  over  these  reflections,  Mr.  Brown  took  his  way  to 
the  steward's  room. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Clar. — How,  two  letters? —  7'he  Lover's  Progress. 

LETTER  FROM  CLARENCE  LINDEN,  ESQ.,  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  HAVER- 
FIELD. 

Hotel ,Calais. 

"  My  Dear  Duke: — Aft«r  your  kind  letter,  you  will  forgive  me 
for  not  having  called  upon  you  before  I  left  England — for  you 
have  led  me  to  hope  that  I  may  dispense  with  ceremony  towards, 
you  ;  and,  in  sad  and  sober  earnest,  I  was  in  no  mood  to  visit 
even  you  during  the  few  days  I  was  in  London,  previous  to  my 
departure.  Some  French  philosopher  has  said  that  '  the  best 
compliment  we  can  pay  our  friends,  when  in  sickness  or  misfor- 
tune, is  to  avoid  them.'  I  will  not  say  how  far  I  disagree  with  this 
sentiment :  but  I  know  that  a  French  philosopher  wili  be  an 
unanswerable  authority  with  you  ;  and  so  I  will  take  shelter 
even  under  the  battery  of  an  enemy. 

"  I  am  waiting  here  for  some  days  in  expectation  of  Lord 
Asjjeden's  arrival.  Sick  as  I  was  of  England,  arid  all  that  has 
lately  occurred  to  me  there,  I  was  glad  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  leaving  it  sooner  than  my  chief  could  do  ;  and  I  amuse  my- 
self very  indifferently  in  this  dull  town,  with  reading  all  the  morn- 
ing, plays  all  the  evening,  and  dreams  of  my  happier  friends  all 
the  night. 

"  And  so  you  are  sorry  that  I  did  not  destroy  Lord  Boro- 
daile.  My  dear  duke,  you  would  have  been  much  more  sorry 
if  I  had  !  What  could  you  then  have  done  for  a  living  Pasquin 
for  your  stray  lampoons  and  vagrant  sarcasms  ?  Had  an  un- 
fortunate bullet  carried  away 

"  '  That  peer  of  England — pillar  of  the  state,' 

as  you  term  him,  pray  en  whom  could  'Duke  Humphrey 
unfold  his  griefs?" — Ah,  Duke,  better  as  it  is,  believe  me  ;  and, 
whenever  you  are  at  a  loss  for  a  subject  for  wit,  you  will  find 


24S  '^HE  DISOWNEU. 

cause  to  bless  my  forbearance,  and  congratulate  yourself  upotl 
the  existence  of  its  object. 

"  Dare  I  hope  that,  amidst  all  the  gayeties  which  court  you, 
you  will  find  time  to  write  to  me  ?  If  so,  you  shall  have  in  re- 
turn the  earliest  intelligence  of  every  new  soprano,  and  the  most 
elaborate  criticisms  on  evey  budding  figurante  of  our  court. 

"Have  you  met  Trollolop  lately — and  in  what  new  pursuit 
are  his  intellectual  energies  engaged  ?  There,  you  see,  I  have 
fairly  entrapped  your  Grace  into  a  question,  which  common 
courtesy  will  oblige  you  to  answer. 

"Adieu,  ever,  my  dear  duke, 

"  Most  truly  yours,  etc." 

LETTER  FROM  THE  DUKE  OF  HAVERFIELD  TO.  CLARENCE  LINDEN, 

ESQ. 

"  A  THOUSAND  thanks,  mon  cher,  for  your  letter,  though  it  was 
certainly  less  amusing  and  animated  than  I  could  have  wished 
it  for  your  sake,  as  well  as  my  own ;  yet  it  could  not  have  been 
more  welcomely  received,  had  it  been  as  witty  as  your  conver- 
sation itself.  I  heard  that  you  had  accepted  the  place  of 
secretary  to  Lord  Aspeden,  and  that  you  had  passed  through 
London  on  your  way  to  the  continent,  looking — (the  amiable 
Callythorpe,  '  who  never  flatters,'  is  my  authority) — more  like 
a  ghost  than  yourself.  So  you  may  be  sure  my  dear  Linden, 
that  I  was  very  anxious  to  be  convinced,  under  your  own  hand, 
of  your  carnal  existence. 

"  Take  care  of  yourself,  my  good  fellow,  and  don't  imagine, 
as  I  am  apt  to  do,  that  youth  is  like  my  hunter.  Fearnought, 
and  will  carry  you  over  everything.  In  return  for  your  philo- 
sophical maxim,  I  will  give  yoU:  another.  "In  age  we  should 
remember  that  we /^^^'^ /^<f^«  young,  and  in  youth  that  we  are 
to  be  old.' — Ehem  ! — am  I  not  profound  as  a  moralist  ?  I  think 
a  few  such  sentences  would  become  my  long  face  well  ;  and,  to 
say  truth,  I  am  tired  of  being  witty — every  one  thinks  he  can 
be  that — so  I  will  borrow  Trollolop's  philosophy — take  snuff, 
wear  a  wig  out  of  curl,  and  grow  wise  instead  of  merry. 

"Apropos  of  Trollolop;  let  me  not  forget  that  you  honor 
him  with  your  inquiries.  I  saw  him  three  days  since,  and  he 
asked  me  if  I  had  been  impressed  lately  with  the  idea  vulgarly 
called  Clarence  Linden  ;  and  he  then  proceeded  to  inform  me 
that  he  had  heard  the  atoms  which  coni[)Osed  your  frame  were 
about  to  be  resolved  into  anew  form.  While  I  was  knitting  my 
brows  very  wisely  at  this  intelligence,  he  passed  on  to  apprise 
3016  that  1  had  neither  length,  breath,  nor  extension,  nor  any« 


TilE'  JDlSOVVNEfi,  «40 

thing  but  mind.  Flattered  by  so  delicate  a  compliment  to  my 
understanding,  I  yielded  my  assent ;  and  he  then  shifted  his 
ground,  and  told  me  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  mind — 
that  we  were  but  modifications  of  matter — and  that,  in  a  word, 
I  was  all  body.  I  took  advantage  of  this  doctrine,  and  forth- 
with removed  my  modification  of  matter  from  his. 

"  Findlater  has  just  lost  his  younger  brother  in  a  duel.  You 
have  no  idea  how  shocking  it  was.  Sir  Christopher  one  day- 
heard   his  brother,  who  had   just   entered   the dragoons, 

ridiculed  for  his  want  of  spirit,  by  Major  Elton,  who  professed 
to  be  the  youth's  best  friend — the  honest  heart  of  our  worthy 
baronet  was  shocked  beyond  measure  at  this  perfidy,  and  the 
next  time  his  brother  mentioned  Elton's  name  with  praise,  out 
came  the  story.  You  may  guess  the  rest ;  young  Findlater 
called  out  Elton,  who  shot  him  through  the  lungs  ! — *  I  did  it 
for  the  best,'  "  cried  Sir  Christopher. 

.  "  La  pauvre petite  Meronville  ! — What  an  Ariadne  !  Just  aa 
1  was  thinking  to  play  the  Bacchus  to  your  Theseus,  up  steps 
an  old  gentleman  from  Yorkshire,  who  hears  it  is  fashionable 
to  marry  bonas  robas,  proposes  honorable  matrimony,  and 
deprives  me  and  the  world  of  La  Meronville  !  The  wedding 
took  place  on  Monday  last,  and  the  happy  pair  set  out  to  theii 
seat  in  the  North.  Verily,  we  shall  have  quite  a  new  race  '\x\ 
the  next  generation — I  expect  all  the  babes  will  skip  into  tha 
world  with  Sipas  de  zephyr,  singing  in  sweet  trebles  : 

'  Little  dancing  loves  we  are  ! 
— Who  the  deuce  is  our  papa  ? ' 

"I  think  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Lord  Borodail^ 
is  beginning  to  thaw — I  saw  him  smile  the  ptiier  day  !  Cer- 
tainly, we  are  not  so  near  the  North  Pole  as  we  were  !  He  is 
going,  and  so  am  I  in  the  course  of  the  autumn,  to  your  old 
friends,  the  Westboroughs.  Report  says  that  he  is  un  peu  e'pris 
de  la  belle  Flore;  but,  then.  Report  is  such  a  liar! — For  my 
own  part  I  always  contradict  her. 

**  I  eagerly  embrace  your  offer  of  correspondence,  and  assure 
you  that  there  are  few  people  by  whose  friendship  I  conceive 
myself  so  much  honored  as  by  yours.  You  will  believe  this  ; 
for  you  know  that,  like  Callythorpe,  I  never  flatter. — Farewell 
for  the  present. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  Haverfield." 


250  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

Q.  EHz. — Shall  I  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus  ? 
JC.  Kick. — Ay,  if  the  devil  tempt  thee  to  do  good. 
Q,  EHz. — Shall  I  forget  myself  to  be  myself? 

— Shakespeare. 

It  wanted  one  hour  to  midnight,  as  Crauford  walked  slowly 
to  the  lonely  and  humble  street  where  he  had  appointed  his 
meeting  with  Glendower.  It  was  a  stormy  and  fearful  night. 
The  day  had  been  uncommonly  sultry,  and  as  it  died  away 
thick  masses  of  clouds  came  laboring  along  the  air,  which  lay 
heavy  and  breathless,  as  if  under  a  spell — as  if  in  those  dense 
and  haggard  vapors  the  rider  of  the  storm  sat,  like  an  incubus, 
upon  the  atmosphere  beneath,  and  paralyzed  the  motion  and 
wholesomeness  of  the  sleeping  winds.  And  about  the  hour  of 
twilight,  or  rather  when  twilight  should  have  been,  instead  of 
its  quiet  star  from  one  obscure  corner  of  the  heavens  flashed  a 
solitary  gleam  of  lightning,  lingered  a  moment : 

"  And  ere  a  man  nad  power  to  say,  Behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  did  devour  it  up." 

But  then,  as  if  awakened  from  a  torpor  by  a  signal  univer- 
sally acknowledged,  from  the  courts  and  quarters  of  heaven 
came,  blaze  after  blaze,  and  peal  upon  peal,  the  light  and 
voices  of  the  Elements  when  they  walk  abroad.  The  rain  fell 
not ;  all  was  dry  and  arid  ;  the  mood  of  Nature  seemed  not 
gentle  enough  for  tears  ;  and  the  lightning,  livid  and  forked, 
flashed  from  the  sullen  clouds  with  a  deadly  fierceness,  made 
trebly  perilous  by  the  panting  drought  and  stagnation  of  the 
air.  The  streets  were  empty  and  silent,  as  if  the  huge  city 
had  been  doomed  and  delivered  to  the  wrath  of  the  tempest— 
and  ever  and  anon  the  lightnings  paused  upon  the  housetops, 
shook  and  quivered  as  if  meditating  their  stroke,  and  then 
baffled,  as  it  were,  by  some  superior  and  guardian  agency,  van- 
ished info  their  gloomy  tents,  and  made  their  next  descent  from 
some  opposite  corner  of  the  skies. 

It  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  force  with  which  a  cher- 
ished object  occupies  the  tliouglits,  and  of  the  all-sufficiency  of 
the  hiinrian  mind  to  itself,  the  slowness  and  unconsciousness  of 
danger  with  which  Crauford,  a  man  luxurious  as  well  as  natur- 
ally timid,  moved  amidst  the  angry  fires  of  heaven,  and 
brooded,  undisturbed,  and  sullenly  serene,  over  the  project  at 
his  heart. 

"  A  rare  night  for  our  meeting,"  thought  he,  "  I  suppose  he 


THE  blSOWNEC.  t$t 

Will  not  fail  me.  Now  let  me  con  over  my  task.  I  must  not 
tell  him  all  yet.  Such  babes  must  be  led  into  error  before 
they  can  walk — -just  a  little  inkling  will  suffice — a  glimpse 
into  the  arcana  of  my  scheme.  Well,  it  is  indeed  fortunate 
that  I  met  him,  for  verily  I  am  surrounded  with  danger,  and 
a  very  little  delay  in  the  assistance  I  am  forced  to  seek  might 
exalt  me  to  a  higher  elevation  than  the  peerage." 

Such  was  the  meditation  of  this  man,  as  with  a  slow,  shuffling 
walk,  characteristic  of  his  mind,  he  proceeded  to  the  appointed 
spot. 

A  cessation  of  unusual  length  in  the  series  of  the  lightnings, 
and  the  consequent  darkness,  against  which  the  dull  and  scanty 
lamps  vainly  struggled,  prevented  Crauford  and  another  figure, 
approaching  from  the  opposite  quarter,  seeing  each  other  till 
they  almost  touched — Crauford  stopped  abruptly. 

"Is  it  you  ?  "  said  he. 

"It  is  a  man  who  has  outlived  fortune!"  answered  Glen- 
dower,  in  the  exaggerated  and  metaphorical  language  which 
the  thoughts  of  men  who  imagine  warmly,  and  are  excited  pow- 
erfully, so  often  assume. 

"Then,"  rejoined  Crauford,  "  you  are  the  more  suited  for 
my  purpose.  A  little  urging  of  necessity  behind  is  a  marvel- 
lous whetter  of  the  appetite  to  danger  before.— He  ! — he  !  " 
And  as  he  said  this,  his  low,  chuckling  laugh  jarringly  enough 
contrasted  with  the  character  of  the  night  and  his  companion. 
Glendower  replied  not  :  a  pause  ensued  ;  and  the  lightning, 
which,  spreading  on  a  sudden  from  east  to  west,  hung  over  the 
city  a  burning  and  ghastly  canopy,  showed  the  face  of  each 
to  the  other,  working,  and  almost  haggard,  as  it  was,  with  the 
conception  of  dark  thoughts,  and  rendered  wan  and  unearthly 
by  the  spectral  light  in  which  it  was  beheld.  "It  is  an  awful 
night !"  said  Glendower, 

"True,"  answered  Crauford — "a  very  awful  night;  but  we 
are  safe  under  the  care  of  Providence. — Jesus  !  what  a  flash  ! 
Think  you  it  is  a  favorable  opportunity  for  our  conversation  ?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Glendower;  "what  have  the  thunders 
and  wrath  of  Heaven  to  do  with  us?  " 

"  H-e-m  !  h-e-m  !  God  sees  all  things,"  rejoined  Crauford, 
'and  avenges  himself  on  the  guilty  by  his  storms  !  " 

"  Ay  ;  but  those  are  the  storms  of  the  heart  !  I  tell  you  that 
even  the  innocent  may  have  that  within  to  which  the  loudest 
tempests  without  are  peace  !  But  guilt,  you  say — what  have 
we  to  do  with  guilt  ?  " 

Crauford  hesitated,  and,  avoiding  any  reply  to  this  question, 


i^it^  THE  WSOWKEO. 

drew  Glendower's  arm  within  his  own,  and,  in  a  low,  half-whis* 
pered  tone  said: 

"  Glendower,  survey  mankind  ;  look  with  a  passionless  and 
unprejudiced  eye  upon  the  scene  which  moves  around  us  :  what 
do  you  see  anywhere  but  the  same  re-acted  and  eternal  law  of 
nature — all,  all  preying  upon  each  other?  Or  if  there  be  a 
solitary  individual  who  refrains,  he  is  as  a  man  without  a  com- 
mon badge,  without  a  marriage  garment,  and  the  rest  trample 
him  under  foot  !  Glendower,  you  are  such  a  man  !  Now 
hearken,  I  will  deceive  you  not;  I  honor  you  too  much  to  be- 
guile you,  even  to  your  own  good.  I  own  to  you,  fairly  and  at 
once,  that  in  the  scheme  I  shall  unfold  to  you,  there  may  be 
something  repugnant  to  the  factitious  and  theoretical  princi- 
ples of  education — something  hostile  to  the  prejudices,  though 
not  to  the  reasonings,  of  the  mind  ;  but — " 

"  Hold  ! "  said  Glendower  abruptly,  pausing  and  fixing  his 
bold  and  searching  eye  upon  the  tempter  ;  "hold  ! — there  will 
be  no  need  of  argument  or  refinement  in  this  case  :  tell  me  at 
x)nce  your  scheme,  and  at  once  I  will  accept  or  reject  it !  " 

"Gently,"  answered  Crauford  :  "to  all  deeds  of  contract 
there  is  a  preamble.  Listen  to  me  yet  fartlier :  when  I  have 
ceased,  I  will  listen  to  you.  It  is  in  vain,  that  you  place  man 
in  cities — it  is  in  vain  that  you  fetter  him  with  laws — it  is  in 
vain  that  you  pour  into  his  mind  the  light  of  an  imperfect 
morality,  of  a  glimmering  wisdom,  of  an  ineffectual  religion  :  in 
all  places  he  is  the  same — the  same  savage  and  crafty  being, 
who  makes  the  passions  which  rule  himself  the  tools  of  his  con- 
quest over  others  !  There  is  in  all  creation  but  one  evident 
law — self-preservation  !  Split  it  as  you  like  into  hairbreadths 
and  atoms,  it  is  still  fundamentally  and  essentially  unaltered. 
Glendower,  that  self-preservation  is  our  bond  now.  Of  my- 
self I  do  not  at  present  speak — I  refer  only  to  you  :  self-pres- 
ervation commands  you  to  place  implicit  confidence  in  me  ;  it 
impels  you  to  abjure  indigence,  by  accepting  the  proposal  I 
am  about  to  make  to  you." 

"You,  as  yet,  speak  enigmas,"  said  Glendower ;  "but  they 
are  sufficiently  clear  to  tell  me  their  sense  is  not  such  as  I  have 
heard  you  utter." 

"  You  are  right.  Truth  is  not  always  safe — safe  either  to 
others,  or  to  ourselves !  But  I  dare  open  to  you  now  my  real 
heart :  look  in  it — I  dare  to  say  that  you  will  behold  charity, 
benevolence,  piety  to  God,  love  and  friendship  at  this  moment 
to  yourself;  but  I  own,  also,  that  you  will  behold  there  a  de- 
. termination — which,  to  me,  seems  courage — not  to  be  the  only 


tHE  DISOWNED.  S53 

idle  being  in  the  world,  where  all  are  busy  ;  or  worse  still,  to 
be  the  only  one  engaged  in  a  perilous  and  uncertain  game,  and 
yet  shunning  to  employ  all  the  arts  of  which  he  is  master.  I 
will  own  to  you  that,  long  since,  had  I  been  foolishly  inert,  I 
should  have  been  at  this  moment  more  penniless  and  destitute 
than  yourself.  I  live  happy,  respected,  wealthy!  I  enjoy  in 
their  widest  range  the  blessings  of  life.  I  dispense  those  bless- 
ings to  others.  Look  round  the  world — whose  name  stands 
fairer  than  mine  ?  whose  hand  relieves  more  of  human  dis- 
tresses ?  whose  tongue  preaches  purer  doctrines  ?  None,  Glen- 
dower,  none.  I  offer  to  you  means  not  dissimilar  to  those  I 
have  chosen — fortunes  not  unequal  to  those  I  possess.  Nothing 
but  the  most  unjustifiable  fastidiousness  will  make  you  hesitate 
to  accept  my  offer." 

"You  cannot  expect  that  I  have  met  you  this  night  with  a 
resolution  to  be  unjustifiably  fastidious,"  said  Glendower,  with 
a  hollow  and  cold  srhile. 

Crauford  did  not  immediately  answer,  for  he  was  consider- 
ing whether  it  was  yet  the  time  for  disclosing  the  important 
secret.  While  he  was  deliberating,  the  sullen  clouds  began  to 
break  from  their  suspense.  A  double  darkness  gathered  around, 
and  a  few  large  drops  fell  on  the  ground  in  token  of  a  more 
general  discharge  about  to  follow  from  the  floodgates  of  heaven. 
The  two  men  moved  onward,  and  took  shelter  under  an  old 
arch.  Crauford  first  broke  silence.  "  Hist,"  said  he — "  hist — 
do  you  hear  anything  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  I  heard  the  winds  and  the  rain,  and  the  shaking 
houses,  and  the  plashing  pavements,  and  the  reeking  housetops; 
nothing  more." 

Looking  long  and  anxiously  around  to  certify  himself  that 
none  was  indeed  the  witness  of  their  conference,  Crauford  ap- 
proached close  to  Glendower,  and  laid  his  hand  heavily  upon 
his  arm.  At  that  moment  a  vivid  and  lengthened  flash  of 
lightning  shot  through  the  ruined  arch,  and  gave  to  Crauford's 
countenance  a  lustre  which  Glendower  almost  started  to  be- 
hold. The  face,  usually  so  smooth,  calm,  bright  in  complex- 
ion, and  almost  inexpressive  from  its  extreme  composure,  now 
agitated  by  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and  tinged  by  the 
ghastly  light  of  the  skies,  became  literally  fearful.  The  cold 
blue  eye  glared  out  from  its  socket — the  lips  blanched,  and, 
parting  in  act  to  speak,  showed  the  white  glistening  teeth  ;  and 
the  corners  of  the  mouth,  drawn  down  in  a  half  sneer,  gave  to 
the  cheeks,  rendered  green  and  livid  by  the  lightning,  a  lean 
and  hollow  appearance,  contrary  to  theirnatural  shape. 


254  *HE  DISOWNED. 

**  It  is,"  said  Crauford,  in  a  whispered  but  distinct  tone,  "a 
perilous  secret  that  I  am  about  to  disclose  to  you.  I  indeed 
have  no  concern  in  it,  but  my  lords  the  judges  have,  and  you 
will  not  therefore  be  surprised  if  I  forestall  the  ceremonies  of 
their  court,  and  require  an  oath." 

Then,  his  manner  and  voice  suddenly  changing  into  an 
earnest  and  deep  solemnity,  as  excitement  gave  him  an  elo- 
quence more  impressive,  because  unnatural  to  his  ordinary 
moments,  he  continued  ;  "  By  those  lightnings  and  commotions 
^bove — by  the  heavens  in  which  they  revel  in  their  terrible 
sports — by  the  earth,  whose  towers  they  crumble,  and  herbs 
they  blight,  and  creatures  they  blast  into  cinders  at  their 
will — by  Him  whom,  whatever  be  the  name  He  bears,  all  men 
in  the  living  world  worship  and  tremble  before — by  whatever 
is  sacred  in  this  great  and  mysterious  universe,  and  at  the  peril 
of  whatever  can  wither,  and  destroy,  and  curse — swear  to  pre- 
serve inviolable  and  for  ever  the  secret  I  shall  whisper  to  your 
ear !  " 

The  profound  darkness  which  now,  in  the  pause  of  the 
lightning,  wrapt  the  scene,  hid  from  Crauford  all  sight  of  the 
effect  he  had  produced,  and  even  the  very  outline  of  Glen- 
dower's  figure :  but  the  gloom  made  more  distinct  the  voice 
which  thrilled  through  it  upon  Crauford's  ear. 

*'  Promise  me  that  there  is  not  dishonor,  nor  crime,  which  is 
dishonor,  in  this  confidence,  and  I  swear." 

Crauford  ground  his  teeth.  He  was  about  to  reply  impetu- 
ously, but  he  checked  himself.  "I  am  not  going,"  thought  he, 
"to  communicate  my  own  share  of  this  plot,  but  merely  to  state 
that  a  plot  does  exist,  and  then  to  point  out  in  what  manner 
he  can  profit  by  it — so  far,  therefore,  there  is  no  guilt  in  his 
concealment,  and,  consequently,  no  excuse  for  him  to  break  his 
vow." 

Rapidly  running  over  this  self-argument,  he  said  aloud — **  I 
promise  ! " 

"  And,"  rejoined  Glendower,  "  I  swear !  " 

At  the  close  of  this  sentence  another  flash  of  lightning  again 
made  darkness  visible,  and  Glendower,  beholding  the  counte- 
nance of  his  companion,  again  recoiled;  for  its  mingled  haggard- 
ness  and  triumph  seemed  to  his  excited  imagination  the  very 
expression  of  a  fiend  ! — "Now,"  said  Crauford,  relapsing  into 
his  usual  careless  tone,  somewhat  enlivened  by  his  sneer,  "now, 
then,  you  must  not  interrupt  me  in  my  disclosure,  by  those 
starts  and  exclamations  which  break  from  your  philosophy  liir« 
sparks  from  flint.     Hear  me  throughout." 


THE   DISOWNED.  255 

And,  bending  down,  till  his  mouth  reached  Glendower's  ear, 
he  commenced  his  recital.  Artfully  hiding  his  own  agency,  the 
master-spring  of  the  gigantic  machinery  of  fraud,  which,  too 
mighty  for  a  single  hand,  required  an  assistant — throwing  into 
obscurity  the  sin,  while,  knowing  the  undaunted  courage  and 
desperate  fortunes  of  the  man,  he  did  not  affect  to  conceal  the 
danger — expatiating  upon  the  advantages,  the  immense  and 
almost  inexhaustible  resources  of  wealth  which  his  scheme 
suddenly  opened  upon  one  in  the  deepest  abyss  of  poverty,  and 
slightly  sketching,  as  if  to  excite  vanity,  the  ingenuity  and 
genius  by  which  the  scheme  originated,  and  could  only  be 
sustained — Crauford's  detail  of  temptation,  in  its  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  in  its  adaptation  of  act  to  principles,  in  its  web- 
like craft  of  self- concealment,  and  the  speciousness  of  its  lure, 
was  indeed  a  splendid  masterpiece  of  villainous  invention. 

But  while  Glendower  listened,  and  his  silence  flattered  Crau- 
ford's belief  of  victory,  not  for  one  single  moment  did  a  weak 
or  yielding  desire  creep  around  his  heart.  Subtly  as  the  scheme 
was  varnished,  and  scarce  a  tithe  of  its  comprehensive  enormity 
unfolded,  the  strong  and  acute  mind  of  one  long  accustomed 
to  unravel  sophistry  and  gaze  on  the  loveliness  of  truth,  saw  at 
once  that  the  scheme  proposed  was  of  the  most  unmingled 
treachery  and  baseness.  Sick,  chilled,  withering  at  heart,  Glen- 
dower leant  against  the  damp  wall  ;  as  every  word  which  the 
tempter  fondly  imagined  was  irresistibly  confirming  his  purpose, 
tore  away  the  last  prop  to  which,  in  the  credulity  of  hope,  the 
student  had  clung,  and  mocked  while  it  crushed  the  fondness 
of  his  belief. 

Crauford  ceased,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  grasp  Glen- 
dower's. He  felt  it  not. — "You  do  not  speak,  my  friend,"' said 
he  ;  "  do  you  deliberate,  or  have  you  not  decided  ?"  Still  no 
answer  came.  Surprised,  and  half  alarmed,  he  turned  round, 
and  perceived,  by  a  momentary  flash  of  lightning,  that  Glen- 
dower had  risen,  and  was  moving  away  towards  the  mouth  of 
the  arch. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  Glendower,"  cried  Crauford,  "  where  are 
you  going  ?  " 

"  Anywhere,"  cried  Glendower,  in  a  sudden  paroxysm  of 
indignant  passion,  "  anywhere  in  this  great  globe  of  suffering, 
so  that  the  agonies  of  my  human  flesh  and  heart  are  not  polluted 
by  the  accents  of  crime  !  And  such  crime  ! — Why,  I  would 
rather  go  forth  into  the  highways,  and  win  bread  by  the  sharp 
knife,  and  the  death-struggle,  than  sink  my  soul  in  such  mire 
and  filthiness  of  sin.      Fraud — fraud — treachery  !      Merciful 


256  THE   DISOWNED. 

Father !  what  can  be  my  state,  when  these  are  supposed  to 
tempt  me  !  " 

Astonished  and  aghast,  Crauford  remained  rooted  to  the  spot. 

"  Oh  !  "  continued  Glendower — and  his  noble  nature  was 
Wrung  to  the  utmost ;  '*  Oh,  MAN— MAN  !  that  I  should 
have  devoted  my  best  and  freshest  years  to  the  dream  of  serv- 
ing thee  !  In  my  boyish  enthusiasm,  in  my  brief  day  of 
pleasure  and  of  power,  in  the  intoxication  of  love,  in  the 
reverse  of  fortune,  in  the  squalid  and  obscure  chambers  of 
degradation  and  poverty,  that  one  hope  animated,  cheered, 
sustained  me  through  all  !  In  temptation  did  this  hand  belie, 
or  in  sickness  did  this  brain  forego,  or  in  misery  did  this  heart 
forget,  thy  great  and  advancing  cause  ?  In  the  wide  world,  is 
there  one  being  whom  I  have  injured,  even  in  thought — one 
being  who,  in  the  fellowship  of  want,  should  not  have  drunk  of 
my  cup,  or  broken  with  me  the  last  morsel  of  my  bread  ! — and 
now — now,  is  it  come  to  this  !  " 

And,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  gave  way  to  a  violence 
of  feeling,  before  which  the  weaker  nature  of  Crauford  stood 
trembling  and  abashed.  It  lasted  not  long ;  he  raised  his  head 
from  its  drooping  posture,  and,  as  he  stood  at  the  entrance  of 
the  arch,  a  prolonged  flash  from  the  inconstant  skies  shone  full 
upon  his  form.  Tall,  erect,  still,  the  gloomy  and  ruined  walls 
gave  his  colorless  countenance  and  haughty  stature  in  bold  and 
distinct  relief  ;  all  trace  of  the  past  passion  had  vanished  :  per- 
fectly calm  and  set,  his  features  borrowed  even  dignity  from 
their  marble  paleness,  and  the  marks  of  suffering,  which  the 
last  few  months  had  writ  in  legible  characters  on  the  cheek  and 
brow.  Seeking  out,  with  an  eye  to  which  the  intolerable  light- 
nings seemed  to  have  lent  something  of  their  fire,  the  cowering 
and  bended  form  of  his  companion,  he  said  : 

"  Go  home,  miserable  derider  of  the  virtue  you  cannot  under- 
stand— go  to  your  luxurious  and  costly  home — go  and  repine 
that  human  nature  is  not  measured  by  your  mangled  and 
crippled  laws  ;  amidst  men,  yet  more  fallen  than  I  am,  hope 
to  select  your  victim — amidst  prisons,  and  hovels,  and  roofless 
sheds — amidst  rags  and  destitution,  and  wretches  made  mad  by 
hunger,  hope  that  you  may  find  a  villain. — I  leave  you  to  that 
hope,  and — to  remembrance  !  " 

As  Glendower  moved  away,  Crauford  recovered  himself. 
Rendered  desperate  by  the  vital  necessity  of  procuring  some 
speedy  aid  in  his  designs,  and  not  yet  perfectly  persuaded  of 
the  fallacy  of  his  former  judgment,  he  was  resolved  not  to  suffer 
Glendower  thus  easily  to  depart.     Smothering  his  feelings  by 


THE   DISOWNED.  '257 

an  effort  violent  even  to  his  habitual  hypocrisy,  he  sprung  for- 
ward, and  laid  his  hand  upon  Glendower's  shoulder. 

**  Stay,  stay,"  said  he,  in  a  soothing  and  soft  voice  ;  "  you 
have  wronged  me  greatly.  I  pardon  your  warmth — nay,  I 
honor  it ;  but  hereafter  you  will  repent  your  judgment  of  me. 
At  least,  do  justice  to  my  intentions.  Was  I  an  actor  in  the 
scheme  proposed  to  you  ? — what  was  it  to  me  ?  Was  I  in  the 
smallest  degree  to  be  benefited  by  it  ?  Could  I  have  any 
other  motive  than  affection  for  you  ?  If  I  erred,  it  was  from 
a  different  view  of  the  question  ;  but  is  it  not  the  duty  of  a 
friend  to  find  expedients  for  distress,  and  to  leave  to  the  dis- 
tressed person  the  right  of  accepting  or  rejecting  them? 
But  let  this  drop  for  ever — partake  of  my  fortune — be  my 
adopted  brother.  Here,  I  have  hundreds  about  me  at  this 
moment ;  take  them  all,  and  own  at  least  that  I  meant  you 
well." 

Feeling  that  Glendower,  who  at  first  had  vainly  endeavored 
to  shake  off  his  hand,  now  turned  towards  him,  though  at  the 
moment  it  was  too  dark  to  see  his  countenance,  the  wily 
speaker  continued — "  Yes,  Glendower,  if  by  that  name  I  must 
alone  address  you,  take  all  I  have — there  is  no  one  in  this 
world  dearer  to  me  than  you  are.  I  am  a  lonely  and  disap- 
pointed man,  without  children  or  ties.  I  sought  out  a  friend 
who  might  be  my  brother  in  life,  and  my  heir  in  death.  I 
found  you — be  that  to  me  ! " 

"I  am  faint  and  weak,"  said  Glendower  slowly,  "and  I 
believe  my  senses  cannot  be  clear  ;  but  a  minute  since,  and 
you  spoke  at  length,  and  with  a  terrible  distinctness,  words 
which  it  polluted  my  very  ear  to  catch,  and  ncnci  you  speak  as 
if  you  loved  me.     Will  it  please  you  to  solve  the  riddle  ?  " 

"The  truth  is  this,"  said  Crauford  :  "I  knew  your  pride— 
I  feared  you  would  not  accept  a  permanent  pecuniary  aid, 
even  from  friendship.  I  was  driven  therefore,  to  devise  some 
plan  of  independence  for  you.  I  could  think  of  no  plan  but 
that  which  I  proposed.  You  speak  of  it  as  wicked  :  it  may  be 
so  ;  but  it  seemed  not  wicked  to  me.  I  may  have  formed  a 
wrong — I  own  it  is  a  peculiar — system  of  morals;  but  it  is,  at 
least,  sincere.  Judging  of  my  proposal  by  that  system,  I  saw 
no  sin  in  it.  I  saw,  too,  much  less  danger  than,  in  the  honesty 
of  my  heart,  I  spoke  of.  In  a  similar  distress,  I  solemnly 
swear,  I  myself  would  have  adopted  a  similar  relief.  Nor  is 
this  all  ;  the  plan  i:)roposed  would  have  placed  thousands  in 
your  power.  Forgive  me  if  I  thought  your  life,  and  the  lives 
of  those  most  dear  to  you,  of  greater  valuQ  than  these  sums  tg 


258  THE    DISOWNED. 

the  persons  defrauded — ay — defrauded,  if  you  will ;  forgive 
me  it"  I  thought  that  with  these  thousands  you  would  effect  far 
more  good  to  the  community  than  their  legitimate  owners. 
Upon  these  grounds,  and  on  some  others,  too  tedious  now  to 
state,  I  justified  my  proposal  to  my  conscience.  Pardon  me, 
I  again  beseech  you  :  accept  my  last  proposal  ;  be  my  partner, 
my  friend,  my  heir  ;  and  forget  a  scheme  never  proposed  to 
you,  if  I  had  hoped  (what  I  hope  now)  that  you  would  accept 
the  alternative  which  it  is  my  pride  to  offer,  and  which  you 
are  not  justified,  even  by  pride,  to  refuse." 

"Great  Source  of  all  knowledge!"  ejaculated  Glendower, 
scarcely  audibly,  and  to  himself.  "Supreme  and  unfathomable 
God — dost  thou  most  loathe  or  pity  thine  abased  creatures, 
walking  in  their  dim  reason  upon  this  little  earth,  and  sanction- 
ing fraud,  treachery,  crime,  upon  a  principle  borrowed  from 
thy  laws  !  Oh  !  when — when  will  thy  full  light  of  wisdom 
travel  down  to  us,  and  guilt,  and  sorrow,  and  this  world's  evil 
mysteries  roll  away  like  vapors  before  the  blaze  ! " 

"I  do  not  hear  you,  my  friend,"  said  Crauford.  "Speak 
aloud  ;  you  will — I  feel  you  will,  accept  my  offer,  and  become 
my  brother ! " 

"  Away  !  "  said  Glendower.     "  I  will  not." 

"He  wanders — his  brain  is  touched  ! "  muttered  Crauford, 
and  then  resumed  aloud — "  Glendower,  we  are  both  unfit  for 
talk  at  present — both  unstrung  by  our  late  jar.  You  will  meet 
me  again  to  morrow,  perhaps.  I  will  accompany  you  now  to 
your  door." 

"Not  a  step  :  our  paths  are  different." 

"  Well,  well,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  be  it  as  you  please.  I 
have  offended  ;  you  have  a  right  to  punish  me,  and  play  the 
churl  to-night ;  but  your  address  ?" 

"Yonder,"  said  Glendower,  pointing  to  the  heavens.  "Come 
to  me  a  month  hence,  and  you  will  find  me  i/iere  /" 

*'  Nay,  nay,  my  friend,  your  brain  is  heated,  but  you  leave 
me  !  Well,  as  I  said,  your  will  is  mine — at  least  take  some  of 
these  paltry  notes  in  earnest  of  our  bargain  ;  remember  when 
next  we  meet  you  will  share  all  I  have." 

"You  remind  me,"  said  Glendower,  quietly,  "that  we  have 
old  debts  to  settle.  When  last  I  saw  you,  you  lent  me  a  certain 
sum — there  it  is — take  it — count  it — there  is  but  one  poor 
guinea  gone.  Fear  not — even  to  the  uttermost  farthing  you 
shall  be  repaid." 

"Why,  why,  this  is  unkind,  ungenerous.  Stay,  stay, — " 
but,  waving    his  hand  impatiently,  Glendower   darted   away, 


tn^  DISOWNED.  i50 

and  passing  into  another  street,  the  darkness  effectually  closed 
upon  his  steps. 

"Fool,  fool  that  I  am  !"  Cried  Cfauford,  stamping  vehemently 
on  the  ground — "in  what  point  did  my  wit  fail  me,  that  I  could 
not  win  one  whom  very  hunger  had  driven  into  my  net !  But 
I  must  yet  find  him — and  I  will — the  police  shall  be  set  to 
work  :  these  half  confidences  may  ruin  me.  And  how  deceitful 
he  has  proved — to  talk  more  diffidently  than  a  whining  harlot 
upon  virtue,  and  yet  be  so  stubborn  upon  trial  !  Dastard  that 
I  am  too,  as  well  as  fool — I  felt  sunk  into  the  dust  by  his 
voice.  But  pooh,  I  must  have  him  yet  ;  your  worst  villains 
make  the  most  noise  about  the  first  step.  True,  that  I  cannot 
storm,  but  I  will  undermine.  But,  wretch  that  I  am,  I  must 
win  him  or  another  soon,  or  I  perish  on  a  gibbet — Out,  base 
thought ! " 

CHAPTER  LVII. 

"  Formam  quidem  ipsam,  Marce  fili,  et  tanqaam  faciem  honesti  vides  : 
quae,  si  oculis  cenieretur,  mirabiles  amores  (ut  ait  Plato)  excitaret  sapien- 
tia."*— TULL. 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  Glendower  returned  to  his  home. 
Fearful  of  disturbing  his  wife,  he  stole  with  mute  steps  to  the 
damp  and  rugged  chamber,  where  the  last  son  of  a  princely  line, 
and  the  legitimate  owner  of  lands  and  halls  which  ducal  rank 
might  have  envied,  held  his  miserable  asylum.  The  first  faint 
streaks  of  coming  light  broke  through  the  shutterless  and 
shattered  windows,  and  he  saw  that  sfie  reclined  in  a  deep  sleep 
upon  the  chair  beside  their  child's  couch.  She  would  not  go 
to  bed  herself  till  Glendower  returned,  and  she  had  sat  up, 
watching  and  praying,  and  listening  for  his  footsteps,  till,  in 
the  utter  exhaustion  of  debility  and  sickness,  sleep  had  fallen 
upon  her.     Glendower  bent  over  her. 

"Sleep,"  said  he,  "sleep  on  !  The  wicked  do  not  come  to 
thee  now.  Thou  art  in  a  world  that  has  no  fellowship  with 
this — a  world  from  which  even  happiness  is  not  banished  ! 
Nor  woe,  nor  pain,  nor  memory  of  the  past,  nor  despair  of  all 
before  thee,  make  the  characters  of  thy  present  state !  Thou 
forestallest  the  forgetfulness  of  the  grave,  and  thy  heart  con- 
centrates all  earth's  comfort  in  one  word — '  Oblivion.'  Beauti- 
ful, Ao7e>  beautiful  thou  art  even  yet ! — that  smile,  that  momen- 

*  Son  Marcus,  you  see  the  form  and  as  it  were  the  face  of  Virtue— that  WUdom,  which, 
if  it  could  be  perceived  by  the  eyes,  would  (as  Plato  saith)  kindle  absolute  and  marvelloiu 
afiection. 


266  THE   DISOWNED. 

tary  blush,  years  have  not  conquered  them.  They  are  as  when, 
my  young  bride,  thou  didst  lean  first  upon  my  bosom,  and 
dream  that  sorrow  was  no  more  !  And  I  have  brought  thee 
unto  this.  These  green  walls  make  thy  bridal  chamber — yon 
fragments  of  bread  thy  bridal  board.  Well !  it  is  no  matter  ! 
thou  art  on  thy  way  to  a  land  where  all  things,  even  a  breaking 
heart,  are  at  rest.  I  weep  not ;  wherefore  should  I  weep  ! 
Tears  are  not  for  the  dead,  but  their  survivors.  I  would  rather 
see  thee  drop  inch  by  inch  into  the  grave,  and  smile  as  I  beheld 
it,  than  save  thee  for  an  inheritance  of  sin.  What  is  there  in 
this  little  and  sordid  life  that  we  should  strive  to  hold  it?  What 
in  this  dreadful  dream  that  we  should  fear  to  wake  ? " 

And  Glendower  knelt  beside  his  wife,  and,  despite  hisiyords, 
tears  flowed  fast  and  gushingly  down  his  cheeks  ;  and  wearied 
as  he  was,  he  watched  upon  her  slumbers,  till  they  fell  from  the 
eyes  to  which  his  presence  was  more  joyous  than  the  day. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  even  in  sorrow,  to  see  that  couple, 
whom  want  could  not  debase,  nor  misfortune,  which  makes 
even  generosity  selfish,  divorce  !  All  that  Fate  had  stripped 
from  the  poetry  and  graces  of  life  had  not  shaken  one  leaf 
from  the  romance  of  their  green  and  unwithered  affections  ! 
They  were  the  very  type  of  love  in  its  holiest  and  most  en- 
during shape  :  their  hearts  had  grown  together — their  being 
had  flowed  through  caves  and  deserts,  and  reflected  the  storms 
of  an  angry  Heaven  ;  but  its  waters  had  indissolubly  mingled 
into  one  !  Young,  gifted,  noble,  and  devoted,  they  were  worthy 
victims  of  this  blighting  and  bitter  world  !  Their  garden  was 
turned  into  a  wilderness;  but,  like  our  first  parents,  it  was  hand 
in  hand  that  they  took  their  solitary  way !  Evil  beset  them, 
but  they  swerved  not ;  the  rains  and  the  winds  fell  upon  their 
unsheltered  heads,  but  they  were  not  bowed  ;  and  through  the 
mazes  and  briars  of  this  weary  life,  their  bleeding  footsteps 
strayed  not,  for  they  had  a  clue  !  The  mind  seemed,  as  it  were, 
to  become  visible  and  external  as  the  frame  decayed,  and  to 
cover  the  body  with  something  of  its  own  invulnerable  power  ; 
so  that  whatever  should  have  attacked  the  moral  and  frail  part, 
fell  upon  that  which,  imperishable  and  divine,  resisted  and 
S;ubdued  it ! 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Glendower  that  he  never  again  met 
Wolfe  ;  for  neither  fanaticism  of  political  faith,  nor  sternness 
of  natural  temper,  subdued  in  the  republican  the  real  benevo- 
lence and  generosity  which  redeemed  and  elevated  his  charac- 
ter:  nor  could  any  impulse  of  party-zeal  have  induced  him, 
like  Crauford,  systematically  to  take  advantage  of  poverty  in 


THE   DISOWNED.  26 1 

order  to  tempt  to  participation  in  his  schemes.  From  a  more 
evil  companion  Glendower  had  not  yet  escaped  :  Crauford,  by 
some  means  or  other,  found  out  his  abode,  and  lost  no  time  in 
availing  himself  of  the  discovery.  In  order  fully  to  compre- 
hend his  unwearied  persecution  of  Glendower,  it  must  con- 
stantly be  remembered,  that  to  this  persecution  he  was  bound 
by  a  necessity  which,  urgent,  dark,  and  implicating  life  itself, 
rendered  him  callous  to  every  obstacle,  and  unsusceptible  of  all 
remorse.  With  the  exquisite  tact  which  he  possessed,  he  never 
oi)enly  recurred  to  his  former  proposal  of  fraud  :  he  contented 
himself  with  endeavoring  to  persuade  Glendower  to  accept 
pecuniary  assistance  ;  but  in  vain.  The  veil  once  torn  from 
his  character,  no  craft  could  restore.  Through  all  his  pre- 
tences, and  seven-fold  hypocrisy,  Glendower  penetrated  at  once 
into  his  real  motives  :  he  was  not  to  be  duped  by  assurances  Of 
friendship  which  he  knew  the  very  dissimilarities  between  their 
natures  rendered  impossible.  He  had  seen  at  the  first,  despite 
of  all  allegations  to  the  contrary,  that  in  the  fraud  Crauford 
had  proposed,  that  person  could  by  no  means  be  an  unin- 
fluenced and  cold  adviser.  In  after-conversations,  Crauford, 
driven  by  the  awful  interest  he  had  in  success,  from  his  usual 
consummateness  of  duplicity,  betrayed  in  various  important 
minutiae  how  deeply  he  was  implicated  in  the  crime  for  which 
he  had  argued  ;  and  not  even  the  visible  and  progressive  decay 
of  his  wife  and  child  could  force  the  stern  mind  of  Glendower 
into  accepting  those  wages  of  iniquity  which  he  knew  well  were 
only  offered  as  qn  earnest  or  a  snare. 

There  is  a  royalty  in  extreme  suffering,  when  the  mind  falls 
not  with  the  fortunes,  which  no  hardihood  of  vice  can  violate 
unabashed.  Often  and  often,  humbled  and  defeated,  through 
all  his  dissimulation,  was  Crauford  driven  from  the  presence 
of  the  man  whom  it  was  his  bitterest  punishment  to  fear  most 
when  most  he  affected  to  despise  ;  and  as  often,  recollecting 
his  powers,  and  fortifying  himself  in  his  experience  of  human 
frailty  when  sufficiently  tried,  did  he  return  to  his  attempts. 
He  waylaid  the  door  and  watched  the  paths  of  his  intended 
prey.  He  knew  that  the  mind  which  even  best  repels  tempta- 
tion first-  urged,  hath  seldom  power  to  resist  the  same  sugges- 
tion, if  daily, — dropping, — enwearying, — presenting  itself  in 
every  form, — obtruded  in  every  hour, — losing  its  horror  by 
custom, — and  finding  in  the  rebellious  bosom  itself  its  smoothest 
vizard  and  most  alluring  excuse.  And  it  was,  indeed,  a  mighty 
and  perilous  trial  to  Glendower,  when  rushing  from  the  pres- 
ence of  his  wife  and  child — when  fainting  under  accumulated 


iSct  tHE   DISOWNED. 

evils — when  almost  delirious  with  sickening  and  heated  thought, 
to  hear  at  each  prompting  of  the  wrong  and  excited  nature, 
each  heave  of  the  black  fountain  that  in  no  mortal  breast  is 
utterly  exhausted,  one  smooth,  soft,  persuasive  voice  forever 
whispering,  "  Relief  !  " — relief,  certain,  utter,  instantaneous  ! — 
the  voice  of  one  pledged  never  to  relax  an  effort  or  spare  a 
pang,  by  a  danger  to  himself,  a  danger  of  shame  and  death — 
the  voice  of  one  who  never  spoke  but  in  friendship  and  com- 
passion, profound  in  craft,  and  a  very  sage  in  the  disguises 
with  which  language  invests  deeds. 

But  Virtue  h  <s  resources  buried  in  itself,  which  we  know 
not,  till  the  invading  hour  calls  them  from  their  retreats.  Sur- 
rounded by  hosts  without,  and  when  Nature  itself,  turned 
traitor,  is  its  most  deadly  enemy  within  ;  it  assumes  a  new  and 
a  superhuman  power,  which  is  greater  than  Nature  itself. 
Whatever  be  its  creed — whatever  be  its  sect — from  whatever 
segment  of  the  globe  its  orisons  arise.  Virtue  is  God's  empire, 
and  from  His  throne  of  thrones  He  will  defend  it.  Though 
cast  into  the  distant  earth,  and  struggling  on  the  dim  arena  of 
a  human  heart,  all  things  above  are  spectators  of  its  conflict,  or 
enlisted  in  its  cause.  The  angels  have  their  charge  over  it — 
the  banners  of  archangels  are  on  its  side ;  and  from  sphere  to 
sphere,  through  the  illimitable  ether,  and  round  the  impene- 
trable darkness  at  the  feet  of  God,  its  triumph  is  hymned  by 
harps,  which  are  strung  to  the  glories  of  the  Creator  ! 

One  evening,  when  Crauford  had  joined  Glendower  in  his 
solitary  wanderini-;s,  the  dissembler  renewed  his  attacks. 

"But  why  not,"  said  he,  "accept  from  my  friendship  what  to 
my  benevolence  you  would  deny  ?  I  couple  with  my  offers, 
my  prayers  rather,  no  conditions.  How  then  do  you,  can  you, 
reconcile  it  to  your  conscience,  to  suffer  your  wife  and  child 
to  perish  before  your  eyes  ? " 

"Man — man,"  said  Glendower,  "tempt  me  no  more — let 
them  die  !  At  present  the  worst  is  death — what  you  offer  me 
is  dishonor." 

"  Heavens  ! — how  uncharitable  is  this  !  Can  you  call  the 
mere  act  of  accepting  money  from  one  who  loves  you,  dis- 
honor !" 

"It  is  in  vain  that  you  varnish  your  designs,"  said  Glen- 
dower, stopping,  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  him.  "  Do  you  not 
think  that  cunning  ever  betrays  itself  ?  In  a  thousand  words 
— in  a  thousand  looks,  which  have  escaped  jou,  but  not  mg,  I 
know  that,  if  there  be  one  being  on  this  earth  whom  you  hate, 
and  would  injure,  that  being  is  myself.     Nay,  start  not — listen 


THE   DISOWNED.  i6i^ 

to  me  patiently.  I  have  sworn  that  it  is  the  last  opportunity 
you  shall  have.  I  will  not  subject  myself  to  farther  tempta- 
tion :  I  am  now  sane  ;  but  there  are  things  which  may  drive 
me  mad,  and  in  madness  you  might  conquer.  You  hate  me  : 
it  is  out  of  the  nature  of  earthly  things  that  you  should  not. 
But  even  were  it  otherwise,  do  you  think  that  I  could  believe 
you  would  come  from  your  voluptuous  home  to  these  miserable 
retreats  ;  that,  among  the  lairs  of  beggary  and  theft,  you  would 
lie  in  wait  to  allure  me  to  forsake  poverty,  without  a  stronger 
motive  than  love  for  one  who  affects  it  not  for  you  ?  I  know 
you — I  have  read  your  heart — I  have  penetrated  into  that 
stronger  motive — it  is  your  own  safety.  In  the  system  of 
atrocity  you  proposed  to  me,  you  are  the  principal.  You  have 
already  bared  to  me  enough  of  the  extent  to  which  that  system 
reaches,  to  convince  me  that  a  single  miscreant,  however 
ingenious,  cannot,  unassisted,  support  it  with  impunity.  You 
•want  help:  I  am  he  in  whom  you  have  dared  to  believe 
that  you  could  find  it.  You  are  detected — now  be  un- 
deceived ! " 

"Is  it  so?"  said  Crauford ;  and  as  he  saw  that  it  was 
no  longer  possible  to  feign,  the  poison  of  his  heart  broke  forth 
in  its  full  venom.  The  fiend  rose  from  the  reptile,  and  stood 
exposed  in  its  natural  shape.  Returning  Glendower's  stern 
but  lofty  gaze  with  an  eye  to  which  all  evil  passions  lent  their 
unholy  fire,  he  repeated,  "  Is  it  so  ? — then  you  are  more  pene- 
trating than  I  thought ;  but  it  is  indifferent  to  me.  It  was  for 
your  sake,  not  mine,  most  righteous  man,  that  I  wished  you 
might  have  a  disguise  to  satisfy  the  modesty  of  your  punctilios. 
It  is  all  one  to  Richard  Crauford  whether  you  go  blindfold  or 
with  open  eyes  into  his  snare.  Go  you  must,  and  s/ial/.  Ay, 
frowns  will  not  awe  me.  You  have  desired  the  truth  ;  you 
shall  have  it.  You  are  right,  I  hate  you — hate  you  with  a  soul 
whose  force  of  hatred  you  cannot  dream  of.  Your  pride,  your 
stubbornness,  your  coldness  of  heart,  which  things  that  would 
stir  t"he  blood  of  beggars,  cannot  warm — your  icy  and  passion- 
less virtue — I  hate — I  hate  all !  You  are  right  also,  most  wise 
inquisitor,  in  supposing  that  in  the  scheme  proposed  to  you,  I 
am  the  principal — I  am  I  You  were  to  be  the  tool,  and  s/ia//. 
I  have  offered  you  mild  inducements — pleas  to  soothe  the 
technicalities  of  your  conscience — you  have  rejected  them — be 
it  so.  Now  choose  between  my  first  offer  and  the  gibbet. 
Ay,  the  gibbet !  That  night  on  which  we  made  the  appoint- 
ment, which  shall  not  yet  be  in  vain — on  that  night  you  stopped 
me  in  the  street — you  demanded  money— you  robbed  roe — I 


264  THE    DISOWNED. 

will  swear — I  will  prove  it.  Now,  then,  tremble,  man  of 
morality — dupe  of  your  own  strength — you  are  in  my  power — > 
tremble  !  Yet  in  fuy  safety  is  your  escape — I  am  generous.  I 
repeat  my  original  offer — wealth,  as  great  as  you  will  demand, 
or — the  gibbet — the  gibbet — do  I  speak  loud  enough  ? — do 
you  hear?" 

"Poor  fool!"  said  Glendower,  laughing  scornfully,  and 
inoving  away.  But  when  Crauford,  partly  in  mockery,  partly 
in  menace,  placed  his  hand  upon  Glendower's  shoulder,  as  if 
to  stop  him,  the  touch  seemed  to  change  his  mood  from  scorn 
to  fury— turning  abruptly  round,  he  seized  the  villain's  throat 
with  a  giant's  strength,  and  cried  out,  while  his  whole  counte- 
nance worked  beneath  the  tempestuous  wrath  within,  "What 
if  I  squeeze  out  thy  poisonous  life  from  thee  this  moment  ?"— ^ 
and  then  once  more  bursting  into  a  withering  laughter,  as  he 
surveyed  the  terror  which  he  had  excited,  he  added,  "No,  no; 
thou  art  too  vile  ! " — and,  dashing  the  hypocrite  against  the 
wall  of  a  neighboring  house,  he  strode  away. 

Recovering  himself  slowly,  and  trembling  with  rage  and 
fear,  Crauford  gazed  round,  expecting  yet  to  find  he  had 
sported  too  far  with  the  passions  he  had  sought  to  control. 
When,  however,  he  had  fully  satisfied  himself  that  Glendower 
was  gone,  all  his  wrathful  and  angry  feelings  returned  with 
redoubled  force.  But  their  most  biting  torture  was  the  con- 
sciousness of  their  impotence.  For  after  the  first  paroxysm  of 
rage  had  subsided,  he  saw,  too  clearly,  that  his  threat  could  not 
be  executed  without  incurring  the  most  imminent  danger  of 
discovery.  High  as  his  character  stood,  it  was  possible  that 
no  charge  against  him  might  excite  suspicion  ;  but  a  word 
might  cause  inquiry — and  inquiry  would  be  ruin.  Forced, 
therefore,  to  stomach  his  failure,  his  indignation,  his  shame,  his 
hatred,  and  his  vengeance,  his  own  heart  beeame  a. puaish- 
ment  almost  adequate  to  his  vices. 

"But  my  foe  will  die,"  said  he,  clenching  his  fist  so  firmly 
that  the  nails  almost  brought  blood  from  the  palm  ;  "he  will 
starve,  famish  ;  and  see  them — liis  wife,  his  child — perish  first ! 
I  shall  have  my  triumph,  though  I  shall  not  witness  it :  But 
now  away  to  my  villa  :  there,  at  least,  wnll  be  some  one  whoni 
I  can  mock,  and  beat,  and  trample,  if  I  will !  Would — would 
— ivould  that  I  were  that  very  man,  destitute  as  he  is?  His 
neck,  at  least,  is  safe  :  if  he  dies,  it  will  not  be  upon  the  gal- 
lows, nor  among  the  hootings  of  the  mob  !  O,  horror  !  horror  ! 
What  are  my  villa,  my  wine,  my  women,  with  that  black 
Uiought  ever  following  me  like  a  shadow? — Who — who,  while 


THE    DISOWNED,  265 

an  avalanche  is  sailing  over  him,  who  would  sit  down  to 
feast ! " 

Leaving  this  man  to  shun  or  be  overtaken  by  Fate,  we  return 
to  Glendovver.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  Crauford  visited  him 
no  more ;  and,  indeed,  shortly  afterwards  Glendower  again 
changed  his  home.  But  every  day  and  every  hour  brought  new 
strength  to  the  disease  which  was  creepingand  burning  through 
the  veins  of  the  devoted  wife;  and  Glendower,  who  saw,  on 
earth,  nothing  before  them  but  a  gaol,  from  which,  as  yet,  they 
had  been  miraculously  delivered,  repined  not  as  he  beheld  her 
approach  to  a  gentler  and  benigner  home.  Often  he  sate,  as  she 
was  bending  ever  their  child,  and  gazed  upon  her  cheek  with 
an  insane  and  fearful  joy  at  the  characters  which  consumption 
had  there  engraved  ;  but  when  she  turned  towards  him  her 
fond  eyes  (those  deep  wells  of  love,  in  which  truth  lay  hid,  and 
which  neither  languor  nor  disease  could  exhaust),  the  Unnatural 
hardness  of  his  heart  melted  away,  and  he  would  rush  from  the 
house,  to  give  vent  to  an  agony  against  which  fortitude  and 
manhood  were  in  vain  ! 

There  was  no  hope  for  their  distress.  His  wife  had,  unr 
known  to  Glendower  (for  she  dreaded  his  pride),  written  sev- 
eral times  to  a  relation,  who,  though  distant,  was  still  the 
nearest  in  blood  which  fate  had  spared  her,  but  ineffectually ; 
the  scions  of  a  large  and  illegitimate  family,  which  surrounded 
him,  utterly  prevented  the  success,  and  generally  interrupted 
the  application,  of  any  claimant  on  his  riches  but  themselves, 
Glendower,  whose  temper  had  ever  kept  him  aloof  from  all  but 
the  commonest  acquaintances,  knew  no  human  being  to  apply 
to.  Utterly  unable  to  avail  himself  of  the  mine  which  his 
knowledge  and  talents  should  have  proved — siclc,  and  despon- 
dent at  heart,  and  debarred  by  the  loftiness  of  honor,  or  rather 
principle,  that  nothing  could  quell,  from  any  unla!wful  meansof 
earning  bread,  which  to  most  minds  would  have  been  rendered 
excusable  by  the  urgency  of  nature,  Glendower  marked  the 
days  drag  on  in  dull  and  protracted  despair,  and  envied  every 
corpse  that  he  saw  borne  to  the  asylum  in  which  all  earth's 
hopes  seemed  centred  and  confined. 


266  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

"  For  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last? 
No  !     I  shall  love  thee  still  when  death  itself  is  past 

*  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  * 

Hush'd  were  his  Gertrude's  lips  !  but  still  their  bland 

And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 

"With  love  that  could  not  die  !  and  still  his  hand 

She  presses  to  the  heart,  no  more  that  felt. 

Ah,  heart  1  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt."— tCampbkll, 

"I  WONDER,"  said  Mr.  Brown  to  himself,  as  he  spurred  hia 
shaggy  pony  to  a  speed  very  unusual  to  the  steady  habits  of 
either  party — "  I  wonder  where  I  shall  find  him.  I  would  not  for 
the  late  Lady  Waddilove's  best  diamond  cross  have  anybody 
forestall  me  in  the  news.  To  think  of  my  young  master  dying 
so  soon  after  my  last  visit,  or  rather  my  last  visit  but  one — and 
to  think  of  the  old  gentleman  taking  on  so,  and  raving  about 
his  injustice  to  the  rightful  possessor,  and  saying  that  he  is 
justly  punished,  and  asking  me  so  eagerly  if  I  could  discover 
the  retreat  of  the  late  squire,  and  believing  me  so  implicitly 
when  I  undertook  to  do  it,  and  giving  me  this  letter?"  And 
here  Mr.  Brown  wistfully  examined  an  epistle  sealed  with  black 
wax,  peeping  into  the  corners,  which  irritated  rather  than  satis- 
fied his  curiosity — "  I  wonder  what  the  old  gentleman  says  in 
it — I  suppose  he  will,  of  course,  give  up  the  estate  and  house. 
Let  me  see — that  long  picture  gallery,  just  built,  will,  at  all 
events,  want  furnishing.  That  would  be  a  famous  opportunity 
to  get  rid  of  the  Indian  jars,  and  the  sofas,  and  the  great  Tur- 
key carpet.  How  lucky  that  I  should  just  have  come  in  time 
to  get  the  letter.  Bet  let  me  consider  how  I  shall  find  out ! — 
an  advertisement  in  the  paper?  Ah  !  that's  the  plan.  'Alger- 
non Mordaunt,  Esq.:  something  greatly  to  his  advantage: — ap- 
ply to  Mr.  Brown,  etc'  Ah  !  that  will  do  well,  very  well. 
The  Turkey  carpet  won't  be  quite  long  enough.  I  wish  I  had 
discovered  Mr.  Mordaunt's  address  before,  and  lent  him  some 
money  during  the  young  gentleman's  life  ;  it  would  have 
seemed  more  generous.  However,  I  can  offer  it  now,  before  I 
show  the  letter.  Bless  me,  it's  getting  dark.  Come,  Dobbin, 
ye-up  !  "  Such  were  the  meditations  of  the  faithful  friend  of 
the  late  Lady  Waddilove,  as  he  hastened  to  London,  charged 
with  the  task  of  discovering  Mordaunt,  and  with  the  delivery 
cf  the  following  epistle  ; 


THE   DISOWNED.  267 

"  You  are  now,  sir,  the  heir  to  that  property,  which,  some 
years  ago,  passed  from  your  hands  into  mine.  My  son,  for 
whom  alone  wealth,  or,  I  may  say  life,  was  valuable  to  me,  is 
no  more.  I  only,  an  old,  childless  man,  stand  between  you 
and  the  estates  of  Mordaunt.  Do  not  wait  for  my  death  to  en- 
joy them.  I  cannot  live  here,  where  everything  reminds  me  of 
my  great  and  irreparable  loss.  I  shall  remove  next  month  into 
another  home.  Consider  this,  then,  as  once  more  yours.  The 
house,  I  believe,  you  will  find  not  disimproved  by  my  altera- 
tions ;  the  mortgages  on  the  estate  have  been  paid  off  ;  the 
former  rental  you  will  perhaps  allow  my  steward  to  account  to 
you  for,  and  after  my  death  the  present  one  will  be  yours.  I 
am  informed  that  you  are  a  proud  man,  and  not  likely  to  re- 
ceive favors.  Be  it  so,  sir  !^it  is  no  favor  you  will  receive,  but 
justice — there  are  circumstances  connected  with  my  treaty  with 
your  father,  which  have  of  late  vexed  my  conscience — and  con- 
science, sir,  must  be  satisfied  at  any  loss.  But  we  shall  meet, 
perhaps,  and  talk  over  the  past  ;  at  present  I  will  not  enlarge 
on  it.  If  you  have  suffered  by  me,  I  am  sufl5ciently  punished, 
and  my  only  hope  is  ^p  repair  your  losses, 
r'       ;        -       "I  am,  etc., 

"H.  Vavasour  Mordaunt." 

Such  was  the  letter,  so  important  to  Mordaunt,  with  which 
our  worthy  friend  was  charged.  Bowed  to  the  dust  as  Vava- 
sour was  by  the  loss  of  his  son,  and  open  to  conscience  as  afflic- 
tion had  made  him,  he  had  lived  too  long  for  effect,  not  to  be 
susceptible  to  its  influence,  even  to  the  last.  Amidst  all  his 
grief,  and  it  was  intense,  there  were  some  whispers  of  self-exalta- 
tion at  the  thought  of  the  eclat  which  his  generosity  and  abdica- 
tion, would  excite  ;  and,  with  true  worldly  morality,  the  hoped- 
for  plaudits  of  others  gave  a  triumph,  rather  than  humiliation, 
to  his  reconcilement  with  himself. 

To  say  truth,  there  were  indeed  circumstances  connected  wit4i 
his  treaty  with  Mordaunt's  father,  calculated  to  vex  his  con- 
science. He  knew  that  he  had  not  only  taken  great  advantage 
of  Mr.  Mordaunt's  distress,  but  that,  at  his  instigation,  a  paper 
which  could  forever  have  prevented  Mr.  Mordaunt's  sale  of  the 
property  had  been  destroyed.  These  circumstajices,  during 
the  life  of  his  son,  he  had  endeavored  to  forget  or  to  palliate. 
But  grief  is  rarely  deaf  to  remorse  ;  and  at  the  death 
of  that  idolized  son,  the  voice  at  his  heart  grew  impeFJo.us, 
and  he  lost  the  power,  in  losing  the  motive,  of  rea^oQinjr 
it  away. 


268  THE   DISOWNED. 

Mr.  Brown's  advertisement  was  unanswered  ;  and,  with  the 
zeal  and  patience  of  the  Christian  proselyte's  tribe  and  calling, 
the  good  man  commenced,  in  person,  a  most  elaborate  and 
painstaking  research.  For  a  long  time,  his  endeavors  were  so 
ineffectual,  that  Mr.  Brown,  in  despair,  disposed  of  the  two 
Indian  jars  for  half  their  value  and  heaved  a  despondent  sigh, 
whenever  he  saw  the  great  Turkey  carpet  rolled  up  in  his  ware- 
house with  as  much  obstinacy  as  if  it  never  meant  to  unroll 
itself  again.     .  i  •'  ;  ' 

At  last,  however,-"'by  dint  of  indefatigable  and  minute 
investigation,  he  ascertained  that  the  object  of  his  search  had 
resided  in  London,  under  a  feigned  name;  from  lodging  to 
lodging,  and  corner  to  corner,  he  tracked  him,  till  at  length  he 
made  himself  master  of  Mordaunt's  present  retreat.  A  joyful 
look  did  Mr.  Brown  cast  at  the  great  Turkey  carpet,  as  he 
passed  by  it,  on  his  way  to  his  street  door,  on  the  morning  of  his 
intended  visit  to  Mordaunt.  "  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  good 
heart,"  said  he,  in  the  true  style  of  Sir  Christopher  Findlater, 
and  he  again  eyed  the  Turkey  carpet.  "  I  really  feel  quite 
happy  at  the  thought  of  the  pleasure  I  shall  give  ! " 

After  a  walk  through  as  niany  obscure  and  filthy  wynds,  and 
lanes,  and  alleys,  and  courts,  as  ever  were  threaded  by  some 
humble  fugitive  from  justice,  the  patient  Morris  came  to  a  sort 
of  court,  situated  among  the  miserable  iiovels  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Tower.  He  paused,  wonderingly,  at  a  dwelling,  in  which 
every  window  was  broken,  and  where  the  tiles,  torn  from  the 
roof,  lay  scattered  in  forlorn  confusion  beside  the  door  :  where 
the  dingy  bricks  looked  crumbling  away,  from  very  age  and. 
rottenness,  and  the  fabric,  which  was  of  great  antiquity,  seemed 
so  rocking  and  infirm,  that  the  eye  looked  upon  its  distorted 
and  overhanging  position  with  a  sensation  of  pain  and  dread  ; 
where  the  very  rats  had  deserted  their  loathsome  cells,  from  the 
insecurity  of  their  tenure,  and  the  ragged  mothers  of  the  abject 
neighborhood  forbade  their  brawling  children  to  wander  under 
the  threatening  walls,  lest  they  should  keep  the  promise  of  their 
mouldering  aspect,  and,  falling,  bare  to  the  obstructed  and 
sickly  day  the  secrets  of  their  prison-house.  Girt  with  the 
foul  and  reeking  lairs  of  that  extreme  destitution  which  neces- 
sity urges  irresistibly  into  guilt,  and  excluded  by  filthy  alleys, 
and  an  eternal  atmosphere  of  srnoke  and  rank  vapor,  from  the 
blessed  sun  and  the  pure  air  of  Heaven,  the  miserable  mansion 
seemed  set  apart  for  every  disease  to  couch  within — too  per- 
ilous even  for  the  hunted  criminal — too  dreary  even  for  the 
beggar  to  prefer  it  to  the  bare  hedge,  or  the  inhospitable  porch, 


THE   DISOWNED.  269 

beneath  whose  mockery  of  shelter  the  frosts  of  winter  had  so 
often  numbed  him  into  sleep. 

Thrice  did  the  heavy  and  silver-headed  cane  of  Mr.  Brown 
resound  upon  the  door,  over  which  was  a  curious  carving  of  a 
lion  dormant,  and  a  date  of  which  only  the  two  numbers  15 
were  discernible.  Roused  by  a  note  so  unusual,  and  an  appari- 
tion so  unwontedly  smug  as  the  worthy  Morris,  a  whole  legion 
of  dingy  and  smoke-dried  brats  came  trooping  from  the  sur- 
rounding huts,  and  with  many  an  elvish  cry,  and  strange  oath,  and 
cabalistic  word,  which  thrilled  the  respectable  marrow  of  Mr. 
Brown,  they  collected  in  a  gaping  and,  to  his  alarmed  eye,  a 
menacing  group,  as  near  to  the  house  as  their  fears  and  parentb 
would  permit  them.         '■    '''   ■      '  ■ 

"  It  is  very  dangerous,"  thoiight  Mr.  Brown,  looking  shiver- 
ingly  up  at  the  hanging  and  tottering  roof,  "and  very  appalling," 
as  he  turned  to  the  ragged  crowd  of  infant  reprobates  which 
began  with  every  moment  to  increase.  At  last  he  summoned 
courage,  and  inquired,  in  a  tone  half  sootliing  and  half  digni- 
fied, if  they  could  inform  him  how  to  obtain  admittance,  or 
how  to  arouse  the  inhabitants. 

An  old  crone  leaning  out  of  an  opposite  window,  with  matted 
hair  hanging  over  a  begrimed  and  shrivelled  countenance, 
made  answer.  '*  No  one,"  she  said,  in  her  peculiar  dialect, 
which  the  worthy  man  scarcely  comprehended,  "  lived  there, 
or  had  done  so  for  years  ";  but  Brown  knew  better :  and  while 
he  was  asserting  the  fact,  a  girl  put  her. head  out  of  another 
hovel,  and  said  that  she  had  sometimes  seen,  at  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  a  man  leave  the  house,  but  whether  any  one  else  lived 
in  it,  she  could  not  tell.  Again  Mr.  Brown  sounded  an  alarm, 
but  no  answer  came  forth,  and  in  great  fear  and  trembling  he 
applied  violent  hands  to  the  door ;  it  required  but  little  force  ; 
it  gave  way  ;  he  entered  ;  and,  jealous  of  the  entrance  of  the 
mob  without,  reclosed  and  barred,  as  well  as  he  was  able,  the 
shattered  door.  The  house  was  unnaturally  large  for  the  neigh- 
borliood,  and  Brown  was  in  doubt  whether  first  to  ascend  a 
broken  and  perilous  staircase,  or  search  the  rooms  below  ;  he 
decided  on  the  latter ;  he  found  no  one,  and  with  a  misgiving 
heart,  which  nothing  but  the  recollection  of  the  great  Turkey 
carpet  could  have  inspired,  he  ascended  the  quaking  steps. 
All  was  silent.  But  a  door  was  unclosed.  He  entered,  and 
saw  the  object  of  his  search  before  him. 

Over  a  pallet  bent  a  form,  on  which,  though  youth  seemed 
withered,  and  even  pride  broken,  the  unconquerable  soul  left 
somewhat  of  grace  and  of  glory,  that  sustained  the  beholder's 


270  THE    DISOWNED. 

remembrance  of  belter  days — a  child  in  its  first  infancy  knelt 
on  the  nearer  side  of  the  bed,  with  clasped  hands,  and  vacant 
eyes  tliat  turned  towards  the  intruder  with  a  listless  and  lack- 
lustre gaze.  But  Glendower,  or  rather  Mordaunt,  as  he  benf 
over  the  pallet,  spoke  not,  moved  not  ;  his  eyes  were  riveted  on 
one  object ;  his  heart  seemed  turned  into  stone,  and  his  veins 
curdled  into  ice.  Awed  and  chilled  by  the  breathing  desola- 
tion of  the  spot,  Brown  approached,  and  spoke,  he  scarcely 
knew  what.  "You  are,"  he  concluded  his  address,  "the  mas- 
ter of  Mordaunt  Court";  and  he  placed  the  letter  in  the  hands 
of  the  person  he  thus  greeted.  .      ;  .  ; 

*/ Awake,  hear  me!"  cried  Algernon  tp  Isatiel,  as  she  la,y 
extended  on  the  couch  ;  and  the  messenger  of  glad  tidings,  for 
the  first  time  seeing  her  countenance,  shuddered,  and  knew 
that  he  was  in  the  chamber  of  death.  .f  .j.;.  ,, 

"  Awake  my  own,  own  love  !  Happy  days  are  in  store  for 
us  yet :  our  misery  is  past ;  you  will  live,  live  to.  bless  me  in 
riches,  as  you  have  done  in  want," 

Isabel  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  a  smile,  sweet,  comforting, 
and  full  of  love,  passed  the  lips  which  were  about  to  close  for 
ever.  "Thank  Heaven,"  she  murmured,  "for  your  dear  sake. 
It  is  pleasant  to  die  now,  and  thus  !  "  and  she  placed  the  hand 
that  was  clasped  in  her  relaxing  and  wan  fingers,  within  the 
bosom  which  had  been,  for  anguished  and  hopeless  years,  his 
asylum  and  refuge,  and  which  now,  when  fortune  changed,  as 
if  it  had  only  breathed  in  comfort  to  his  afflictions,  was,  for  the 
first  time,  and  for  ever,  to  be  cold, — cold  even  to  him  ! 
.  "  You  will  live — you  will  liye  !  "  cried  Mordaunt,  in  wild  and 
incredulous  despair — "  in  mercy  live  !  You  who  have  been  my 
angel  of  hope,  do  not — 6  God,  O  God!  do  not  desert  me  now  !  " 

But  that  faithful  and  loving  heart  was  already  deaf  to  his 
voice,  and  the  film  grew  darkening  and  rapidly  over  the  eye, 
which  still,  with  undying  fondness,  sought  him  out  through  the 
shade  and  agony  of  death.  Sense  and  consciousness  were 
gone,  and  dim  and  confused  images  whirled  around  her  soul, 
struggling  a  little  moment  before  they  sunk  into  the  depth  and 
silence  where  the  past  lies  buried.  But  still  mindful  of  Aim, 
and  grasping  as  it  were,  at  his  remembrance,  she  clasped, 
closer  and  closer,  the  icy  hand  which  she  held,  to  her  breast, 
"Your  hand  is  cold,  dearest^-it  is  cold,"  said  she  faintly,  "  but 
I  will  warm  it  /lere  !  " — And  so  her  spirit  passed  away,  and 
Mordaunt  felt  afterward  in  a  lone  and  surviving  pilgrimage,  that 
her  last  thought  had  been  kindness  to  him,  and  her  last  act  h^d 
;flpoken  forgetfiilness  even  of  death,  in  the  tenderness  of  I0.V6.-.I 


THE   DISOWNED.  iff 

CHAPTER   LIX. 
*  Change  and  time  take  together  their  flight."-T-G'.o^ir«  Kjo/(?/. 

One  Evening  in  autumn,  about  three  years  after  the  date  of 
our  last  chapter,  a  stranger  on  horseback,  in  deep  mourning, 
dismounted  at  the  door  of  "the  Golden  Fleece,"  in  the  mem- 
orable town  of  W .     He  walked  into  the   tap-room,   and 

asked  for  a  private  apartment  and  accommodation  for  the 
night.  The  landlady,  grown  considerably  plumper  than  when 
we  first  made  her  acquaintance,  just  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  the 
stranger's  face,  and  summoning  a  short,  stout  man  (formerly  the 
waiter,  now  the  second  helpmate  of  the  comely  hostess), 
desired  him,  in  a  tone  which  partook  somewhat  more  of  the 
authority  itidicative  of  their  former  relative  situations  than  of  the 
obedience  which  should  have  characterized  their  present,  to 
"show  the  gentleman  to  the  Griffin,  No.  Four."''    -'.'''■^'■^  ■.■:'•,.•; 

The  sirahger  smiled  as  the  sound  greeted  his  ears^ and  lies 
followed  not  so  much  the  host  as  the  hostess's  spouse  into  the 
apartment  thus  designated.  A  young  lady,  who  some  eight 
years  ago  little  thought  that  she  should  still  be  in  a  state  of 
single  blessedness,  and  who  always  honored  with  an  attentive 
eye  the  stray  travellers  who,  from  their  youth,  loneliness,  or 
that  ineffable  air  which  usually  designates  the  unmarried  man, 
might  be  in  the  same  solitary  state  of  life,  turned  to  the  lanxj- 
Jady,  and  said  i_      '.       '..     -;  ■       ,_./:.    :/,  ._; 

"Mother,  did  ybtt  bbservfe  \r¥i^t'i'hiiiiasotne  gentleman  that 
was  ? 

"No,"  replied'  tKe  landlady  j  " I  "biily"  observed  (hat,  H^i 
brought  no  servant."  ''■    '   ''"'■ 

"1  wonder,"  said  the  daughter,  "if  he  is  in  the  army ?-^hfc 
has  a  military  air !"      ■  •..■•:'•-  i  •■■  j<:,>ii..;> 

"I  suppose  he  has  dined,**  muttered  the  landlady  tb  Hei^elf, 
looking  towards  the  larder. 

"  Have  you  seen  Squire  Mordaunt  within  a  short  period  of 
time?"  asked,  somewhat  abruptly,  a  little  thick-set  man,  who 
was  enjoying  his  pipe  and  negus  in  a  sociable  way  at  the  window- 
seat.  The  characteristics  6f  this  personage  were,  a  spruce 
wig,  a  bottle  nose,  an  elevated  eyebrow,  a  snuff-colored  skin 
and  coat,  and  an  air  of  that  consequential  self-respect  which 
distinguishes  the  philosopher  \vho  agrees  with  the  French  sage, 
and  sees  "  no  reason  in  the  world  why  a  man  should  not  esteem 
himself."  "     ''''  "        "■'  ,  _    '       ' 

"No,  indeed,  Mr.  ^ossolton,*' returned  the  landlady  ;  "but 


37i  THE   BlSOWNfiD. 

I  suppose  that,  as  he  is  now  in  the  parliament-house,  he  will 
live  less  retired.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  inside  of  that  noble  old 
hall  of  his  should  not  be  more  seen — and  after  all  the  old 
gentleman's  improvements,  too  !  They  say  that  the  estate 
now,  since  the  mortgages  were  paid  off,  is  above  ten  thousand 
pounds  a-year,  clear  !  "  ■^ir\z 

"And,  if  I  am  not  induced  into  "an  error,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Bossolton,  refilling  his  pipe,  "old  Vavasour  left  a  great  sum  of 
ready  money  besides,  which  must  have  been  in  aid,  and  an 
assistance,  and  an  advantage,  mark  me,  Mistress  Merrylack,  to 
the  owner  of  Mordaunt  Hall,  that  has  escaped  the  calculation 
of  your  faculty, — and  the — and  the — faculty  of  your  calcu- 
lation !  " 

"  You  mistake,  Mr.  Boss,"  as,  in  the  friendliness  of  diminu- 
tives, Mrs.  Merrylack  sometimes  styled  the  grandiloquent 
practitioner — "  You  mistake :    the  old  gentleman   left  all  his 

ready  money  in  two  bequests — the  one  to  the  College  of , 

in  the  university  of  Cambridge,  and  the  other  to  an  hospital 
in  London.  I  remember  the  very  words  of  the  will — they  ran 
thus,  Mr.  Boss  :     'And  whereas  my  beloved  son,  had  he  lived, 

would   have   been  a  member  of   the  College  of ,  in  the 

university  of  Cambridge,  which  he  would  have  adorned  by  his 
genius,  learning,  youthful  virtue,  and  the  various  qualities 
which  did  equal  honor  to  his  head  and  heart,  and  would  have 
rendered  him  alike  distinguished  as  the  scholar  and  the 
Christian — I  do  devise  and  bequeath  the  sum  of  thirty- 
seven  thousand  pounds  sterling,  now  in  the  English  funds, ' 
etc.,  etc. ;  and  then  follows  the  manner  in  which  he  will  have 
his  charity  vested  and  bestowed,  and  all  about  the  prize  which 
shall  be  for  ever  designated  and  termed  *  The  Vavasour  Prize,' 
and  what  shall  be  the  words  of  the  Latin  speech  which  shall  be 
spoken  when  the  said  prize  be  delivered,  and  a  great  deal  more 
to  that  effect  :  so,  then,  he  passes  to  the  other  legacy,  of  exactly 

the  same  sum,  to  the  hospital,  usually  called  and  styled , 

in  the  city  of  London,  and  says,  'And  whereas  we  are  assured 
by  the  Holy  Scriptures,  which,  in  these  days  of  blasphemy  and 
sedition,  it  becomes  every  true  Briton  and  member  of  the 
Established  Church  to  support,  that  "  charity  doth  cover  a 
multitude  of  sins  " — so  I  do  give  and  devise,'  etc.,  etc.,  '  to  be 
for  ever  termed  in  the  deeds,'  etc.,  etc.,  '  of  the  said  hospital, 
"  The  Vavasour  Charity";  and  always  provided  that,  on  the 
anniversary  of  the  day  of  my  death,  a  sermon  shall  be  preached 
in  the  chapel  attached  to  the  said  hospital,  by  a  clergyman  of 
ihe  Established  Church,  on  any  tert  appropriate  to  the  day  and 


Tttfi  DISOWNED.  fl73 

deed  so  commemorated,' — but  the  conclusion  is  most  beautiful, 
Mr.  Bossolton  :  *  And  now,  having  discharged  my  duties,  to 
the  best  of  my  humble  ability,  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  my 
country,  and  dying  in  the  full  belief  of  the  Protestant  Church, 
as  by  law  established,  I  do  set  my  hand  and  seal,*  etc.,  etc." 

"A  very  pleasing,  and  charitable,  and  devout,  and  virtuous, 
testament  or  will,  Mistress  Merrylack,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton  ; 
"and  in  a  time  when  anarchy  with  gigantic  strides  does  de- 
vastate, and  devour,  and  harm,  the  good  old  customs  of  our 
ancestors  and  forefathers,  and  tramples  with  its  poisonous 
breath  the  Magna  Charta,  and  the  glorious  Revolution,  it  is 
beautiful — ay,  and  sweet — mark  you,  Mrs.  Merrylack,  to  behold 
a  gentleman  of  the  aristocratic  classes,  or  grades,  supporting 
the  institutions  of  his  country  with  such  remarkable  energy  of 
sentiments,  and  with — and  with — Mistress  Merrylack — 'with 
sentiments  of  such  remarkable  energy." 

"Pray,"  said  the  daughter,  adjusting  her  ringlets  by  a  little 
glass  which  hung  over  the  tap,  "  how  long  has  Mr.  Mordaunt's 
lady  been  dead  ?"  > 

"Oh  !  she  died  just  before  the  squire  came  to  the  property," 
quoth  the  mother.  "Poor  thing — she  was  so  pretty.  lam 
sure  I  cried  for  a  whole  hour  when  I  heard  it !  I  think  it  was 
three  years  last  month,  when  it  happened.  Old  Mr.  Vavasour 
died  about  two  months  afterwards." 

"The  afflicted  husband"  (said  Mr.  Bossolton,  who  was  the 
victim  of  a  most  fiery  Mrs.  Boss  at  home)  "  went  into  foreign 
lands  or  parts,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  termed,  the  continent,  im- 
mediately after  an  event,  or  occurrefnce,  so  fatal  to  the  cup  of 
his  prosperity,  and  the  sunshine  of  his  enjoyment,  did  he  not, 
Mrs.  Merrylack  ?" 

"  He  did.  And  you  know,  Mr.  Boss,  he  only  returned  about 
six  months  ago." 

"  And  of  what  borough,  or  burgh,  or  town,  or  city,  is  he  the 
member  and  representative?"  asked  Mr.  Jeremiah  Bossolton, 
putting  another  lump  of  sugar  into  his  negus.  "  I  have  heard, 
it  is  true,  but  my  memory  is  short  ;  and  in  the  multitude  and 
multifariousness  of  my  professional  engagements,  I  am  often 
led  into  aforgetfulness  of  matters  less  important  in  their  variety, 
and  less — less  various  in  their  importance." 

"Why,"  answered  Mr.  Merrylack,  "somehow  or  other,  I 
quite  forget  too  ;  but  it  is  some  distant  borough.  The  gen- 
tleman wanted  b.im  to  stand  for  the  county,  but  he  would  not 
hear  of  it  ;  perhaps  he  did  not  like  the  publicity  of  the  things 
for  he  is  mighty  reserved." 


274  ^HE  DISOWNED. 

"  Proud,  haughty,  arrogant,  and  assumptious !  '*  said  Mr.  Bos- 
solton,  with  a  puff  of  unusual  length. 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  the  daughter  (young  people  are  always  the 
first  to  defend),  "  I'm  sure  he's  not  proud — he  does  a  mort  of 
good,  and  has  the  sweetest  smile  possible  !  I  wonder  if  he'll 
marry  again  !  He  is  very  young  yet,  not  above  two  or  three- 
and-thirty."  (The  kind  damsel  would  not  have  thought  two  or 
three-and-thirty  very  young  some  years  ago  ;  but  we  grow 
wonderfully  indulgent  to  the  age  of  other  people  as  we  grow 
older  ourselves !) 

"  And  what  an  eye  he  has  !  "  said  the  landlady.  "Well,  for 
my  part — but,  bless  me.  Here,  John — John — John — waiter — 
husband,  I  mean — here's  a  carriage  and  four  at  the  door. 
Lizzy,  dear,  is  my  cap  right  ?" 

And  mother,  daughter,  and  husband,  all  flocked,  charged 
with  simper,  courtesy,  and  bow,  to  receive  their  expected  guests. 

With  a  disappointment  which  we  who  keep  not  inns  can  but 
very  imperfectly  conceive,  the  trio  beheld  a  single  personage — 
a  valet — descent  from  the  box,  open  the  carriage  door,  and 
take  out — a  desk  ! — Of  all  things  human,  male  or  female,  the 
said  carriage  was  utterly  empty. 

The  valet  bustled  up  to  the  landlady  ;  "  My  master's  here, 
ma'am,  I  think — rode  on  before  !  " 

"And  who  is  your  master  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Merrylack — a  thrill 
of  alarm,  and  the  thought  of  No.  Four,  coming  across  her  at 
the  same  time, 

*'  Who  !  "  said  the  valet  rubbing  his  hands  ;  "  who  ! — why 
Clarence  Talbot  Linden,  Esq.,  of  Scarsdale  Park,  county  of 

York,  late  Secretary  of  Legation  at  the  Court  of ,  now  M. 

P.,  and  one  of  his  Majesty's  under  Secretaries  of  State.  " 

"  Mercy  upon  us  !  "  cried  the  astounded  landlady,  "and  No. 
Four  !  only  think  of  it.  Run,  John, — John — run — light  a  fire 
(the  night's  cold,  I  think) — in  the  Elephant,  Number  Sixteen 
— beg  the  gentleman's  pardon — say  it  was  occupied  till  now  ; 
ask  what  he'll  have  for  dinner — fish,  flesh,  fowl,  steak,  joints, 
chops,  tarts — or,  if  it's  too  late  (but  it's  quite  early  yet — you 
may  put  back  the  day  an  hour  or  so),  ask  what  he'll  have  for 
supper — run,  John,  run  :  what's  the  oaf  staying  for — run,  I  tell 
you  ! — Pray,  sir,  walk  in  (to  the  valet,  our  old  friend  Mr.  Har- 
rison)— you'll  be  hungry  after  your  journey,  I  think  ;  no 
ceremony,  I  beg." 

"  He's  not  so  handsome  as  his  master,"  said  Miss  Elizabeth, 
glancing-at  Harrison  discontentedly — "  but  he  does  not  look 
like  a  married    man,   somehow.     I'll    just  step  upstairs,  and 


THE    DISOWNED.  275 

change  my  cap  ;  it  would  be  but  civil  if  the  gentleman's  gen" 
tleman  sups  with  us." 

Meanwhile  Clarence,  having  been  left  alone  in  the  quiet  en- 
joyment of  No.  Four,  Iiad  examined  the  little  apartment  with 
an  interest  not  altogether  unmingled  with  painful  reflections. 
There  are  few  persons,  however  fortunate,  who  can  look  back 
to  eight  years  of  their  life,  and  not  feel  somewhat  of  disappoint- 
ment in  the  retrospect :  few  persons,  whose  fortunes  the  world 
envy,  to  whom  the  token  of  past  time,  suddenly  obtruded  on 
their  remembrance,  does  not  awaken  hopes  destroyed,  and 
wishes  deceived,  which  the  world  has  never  known.  We  tell 
our  triumphs  to  the  crowd,  but  our  own  hearts  are  the  sole 
confidants  of  our  sorrows.  "  Twice,"  said  Clarence  to  himself, 
"  twice  before  have  I  been  in  this  humble  room  ;  the  first  was 
when,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  I  was  just  launched  into  the 
world — a  vessel  which  had  for  its  only  hope  the  motto  of  the 
chivalrous  Sydney: 

"  'Aut  viam  inveniam,  ant  faciam  ;  '* 

yet,  humble  and  nameless  as  I  was,  how  well  I  can  recall  the 
exaggerated  ambition,  nay,  the  certainty  of  success,  as  well  as 
its  desire,  which  then  burnt  within  me.  I  smile  now  at  the 
overweening  vanity  of  those  hopes — some,  indeed,  realized, 
but  how  many  nipped  and  withered  forever  I  seeds  of  which  a 
few  fell  upon  rich  ground,  and  prospered,  but  of  which  how  far 
the  greater  number  were  scattered,  some  upon  the  wayside, 
and  w^ere  devoured  by  immediate  cares,  some  on  stony  places, 
and  when  the  sun  of  manhood  was  up,  they  were  scorched, 
and  because  they  had  no  root,  withered  away,  and  some 
among  thorns,  and  the  thorns  sprang  up  and  choked  them.  \ 
am  now  rich,  honored,  high  in  the  favor  of  courts,  and  not 
altogether  unknown  or  unesteemed  arbitrio  popularis  aura: 
and  yet  I  almost  think  I  was  happier  when,  in  that  flush  of 
youth  and  inexperience,  I  looked  forth  into  the  wide  world, 
and  imagined  that  from  every  corner  would  spring  up  a  triuniph 
for  my  vanity,  or  an  object  for  my  affections.  The  next  time 
I  stood  in  this  little  spot,  I  was  no  longer  the  dependent  of  a 
precarious  charity,  or  the  idle  adventurer  who  had  no  stepping- 
stone  but  his  ambition.  I  was  then  just  declared  the  heir  of 
wealth,  which  I  could  not  rationally  have  hoped  for  five  years 
before,  and  which  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  aspir' 
ings  of  ordinary  men.  But  I  was  corroded  with  anxieties  for 
the  object  of  my  love,  and  regret  for  the  friend  whom  I  had 

•  J  will  either  find  my  way,  or— make  it. 


i'76  THE    DISOWNED. 

lost  ;  perhaps  the  eagerness  of  my  heart  for  the  one  rendered 
me,  for  the  moment,  too  little  mindful  of  the  other ;  but,  in 
after-years,  memory  took  ample  atonement  for  that  temporary 
suspension  of  her  duties.  How  often  have  I  recalled,  in  this 
world  of  cold  ties  and  false  hearts,  that  true  and  generous 
friend,  from  whose  lessons  my  mind  took  improvement,  and 
from  whose  warnings,  example ;  who  was  to  me,  living,  a 
father,  and  from  whose  generosity,  whatever  worldly  advan- 
tages I  have  enjoyed,  or  distinctions  I  have  gained,  are  de- 
rived !  Then  I  was  going  with  a  torn,  yet  credulous,  heart,  to 
pour  forth  my  secret  and  my  passion  to  he7-,  and,  within  one 
little  week  thence,  how  shipwrecked  of  all  hope,  object,  and 
future  happiness,  I  was  !  Perhaps,  at  that  time,  I  did  not  suf- 
ficiently consider  the  excusable  cautions  of  the  world — I 
should  not  have  taken  such  umbrage  at  her  father's  letter — 
I  should  have  revealed  to  him  my  birth,  and  accession  of  for- 
tune— nor  bartered  the  truth  of  certain  happiness  for  the  trials 
and  manoeuvres  of  romance.  But  it  is  too  late  to  repent  now. 
By  this  time  my  image  must  be  wholly  obliterated  from  her 
heart :  she  has  seen  me  in  the  crowd,  and  passed  me  coldly 
by — her  cheek  is  pale,  but  not  for  me  ;  and  in  a  little — little 
while — she  will  be  another's,  and  lost  to  me  forever !  Yet  have 
I  never  forgotten  her  through  change  or  time — the  hard  and 
harsh  projects  of  ambition — the  labors  of  business,  or  the  en- 
grossing schemes  of  political  intrigue.  Never  !— but  this  is  a 
vain  and  foolish  subject  of  reflection  now." 

And  not  the  less  reflecting  upon  it  for  that  sage  and  vera- 
cious recollection,  Clarence  turned  from  the  Avindow,  against 
which  he  had  been  leaning,  and  drawing  one  of  the  four  chairs 
to  the  solitary  table,  he  sat  down,  moody  and  disconsolate,  and 
leaning  his  face  upon  his  hands,  pursued  the  confused,  yet  not 
disconnected,  thread  of  his  meditations. 

The  door  abruptly  opened,  and  Mr.  Merrylack  appeared. 

"  Dear  me,  sir !  "  cried  he,  "  a  thousand  pities  you  should 
have  been  put  here,  sir !  Pray  step  upstairs,  sir  ;  the  front 
drawing-room  is  just  vacant,  sir ;  what  will  you  please  to  have 
for  dinner,  sir,"  etc.,  etc.,  according  to  the  instructions  of  his 
wife.  To  Mr.  Merrylack's  great  dismay,  Clarence,  however, 
resolutely  refused  all  attempts  at  locomotion,  and  contenting 
himself  with  entrusting  the  dinner  to  the  discretion  of  the  land- 
lady, desired  to  be  left  alone  until  it  was  prepared. 

Now  when  Mr.  John  Merrylack  returned  to  the  tap-room, 
and  communicated  the  stubborn  adherence  to  No.  Four,  mani- 
fested by  its  occupier,  our  good  hostess  felt  exceedingly  dis* 


THE    DISOWNED.  277 

composed,  "You  are  so  stupid,  John,"  cried  she,  "1 11  go  and 
expostulate  like  with  him  "  ;  and  she  was  rising  for  that  pur- 
pose, when  Harrison,  who  was  taking  particularly  good  care 
of  himself,  drew  her  back  :  "  I  know  my  master's  temper  better 
than  you  do,  ma'am,"  said  he  ;  "and  when  he  is  in  the  humor 
to  be  stubborn,  the  very  devil  himself  could  not  get  him  out  of 
it.  I  dare  say  he  wants  to  be  left  to  himself  :  he  is  very  fond 
of  being  alone  now  and  then  ;  state  affairs,  you  know  (added 
the  valet,  mysteriously  touching  his  forehead),  and  even  I  dare 
not  disturb  him  for  the  world  :  so  make  yourself  easy  and  I'll 
go  to  him  when  he  has  dined  and  J  supped.  There  is  time 
enough  for  No.  Four  when  we  have  taken  care  of  number 
one. — Miss,  your  health  !  " 

The  landlady,  reluctlantly  overruled  in  her  design,. reseated 
herself. 

"  Mr.  Clarence  Linden,  M.  P.,  did  you  say,  sir  ? "  said  the 
learned  Jeremiah  :  "surely,  I  have  had  that  name  or  appella- 
tion in  my  books,  but  I  cannot,  at  this  instant  of  time,  recall  to 
my  recollection  the  exact  date  and  circumstance  of  my  pro- 
fessional services  to  the  gentleman  so  designated,  styled,  or,  I 
may  say,  termed." 

'  Can't  say,  I  am  sure,  sir,"  said  Harrison — "  lived  with  my 
master  many  years — never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  be- 
fore, nor  of  travelling  this  road — a  very  hilly  road  it  is,  sir. 
Miss,  this  negus  is  as  bright  as  your  eyes,  and  as  warm  as  my 
admiration." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

**  Pray,"  said  Mr.  Merrylack,  who,  like  most  of  his  tribe,  was 
a  bit  of  a  politician  ;  "is  it  the  Mr,  Linden  who  made  that 
long  speech  in  the  House  the  other  day  ?" 

"  Precisely,  sir.  He  is  a  very  eloquent  gentleman,  indeed  : 
pity  he  speaks  so  little — never  made  but  that  one  long  speech 
since  he  has  been  in  the  House,  and  a  capital  one  it  was,  too. 
You  saw  how  the  prime  minister  complimented  him  upon  it. 
*  A  speech,'  said  his  lordship,  'which  had  united  the  graces  of 
youthful  genius,  with  the  sound  calculations  of  matured  expe- 
rience ' ! " 

"Did  the  prime  minister  really  so  speak?  "said  Jeremiah: 
"what  a  beautiful,  and  noble,  and  sensible  compliment!  I  will 
examine  my  books  when  I  go  home — 'the  graces  of  youthful 
genius,  with  the  sound  calculations  of  matured  experience  ' !  " 

"If  he  is  in  the  Parliament  House,"  quoth  the  landlady,  "I 
suppose  he  will  know  our  Mr.  Mordaunt,  when  the  squire 
takes  his  seat,  next — what  do  you  call  it — sessions?" 


lfe"^8  THE    DISOWNEDi. 

"Know  Mr.  Mordaunt !  "  said  the  valet.  "  It  is  to  see  him 
that  7c>e  have  come  down  here.  We  intended  to  have  gone 
there  to-night,  but  master  thought  it  too  late,  and  I  saw  he  was 
in  a  melancholy  humor  ;  we  therefore  resolved  to  come  here  ; 
and  so  master  took  one  of  the  horses  from  the  groom,  whom 
we  have  left  behind  with  the  other,  and  came  on  alone.  I 
take  it,  he  must  have  been  in  this  town  before,  for  he  de- 
scribed the  inn  so  well. — Capital  cheese  this ;  as  mild^ — as  mild 
as  your  sweet -smile,  iniss  !" 

"Oh,  sir!''-i'^    ■  ••(  ^'^; 

"  Pray,  Mistress  'Merrylack,"  said  Mr.  Jeremiah  Bossolton, 
depositing  his  pipe  on  the  table,  and  awakening  from  a  profound 
reverie  in  which,  for  the  last  five  minutes,  his  senses  had  been 
buried — "pray.  Mistress  Merrylack,  do  you  not  call  to  your 
mind,  or  your  reminiscence,  or  your — your  recollection  a  young 
gentleman,  equally  comely  in  his  aspect  and  blandiloquent 
(ehem  !)in  his  address,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  have  his  arm 
severely  contused  and  afflicted  by  a  violent  kick  from  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt's  horse,  even  in  the  yard  in  which  your  stables  are  situ- 
ated, and  who  remained  for  two  or  three  days  in  your  house,  or 
tavern,  or  hotel  ?  I  do  remember  that  you  were  grievously  per- 
plexed because  of  his  name,  the  initials  of  which  only  he 
■gave,  or  intrusted,  or  communicated  to  you,  until  you  did 
•exam — " 

"I  remerhber,"  interrupted  Miss  Elizabeth— "I  rememlier 
well — a  very  beautiful  young  gentleman,  who  had  a  letter  di- 
rected to  be  left  here,  addressed  to  him  by  the  letters  C.  L.,  and 
who  was  afterwards  kicked,  and  who  admired  your  cap.  mother, 
and  whose  name  7f'd!^  Clarence  Linden.  You  remember  it  well 
enough,  mother,  surely?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  Lizzy,"said  the  landlady,  slowly ;  for  her  mem- 
ory, not  so  much  occupied  as  her  daughter's  by  beautiful  young 
gentlemen,  struggled  slowly  amidst  dim  ideas  of  the  various 
travellers  and  visitors  with  whom  her  house  had  been  honored, 
before  she  came,  at  last,  to  the  reminiscence  of  Clarence  Lin- 
den— "  I  think  I  do — and  Squire  Mordaunt  was  very  attentive 
to  him — and  he  broke  one  of  the  panes  of  glass  in  No.  Eight, 
and  gave  me  half  a  guinea  to  pay  for  it.  I  do  remember,  per- 
fectly Lizzy.     So  that  is  Mr.  Linden  now  here  ! — only  think  !  *' 

**I  should  not  have  known  him,  certainly,"  said  Miss  Eliza- 
beth ;  "  he  is  grown  so  much  taller,  and  his  hair  looks  quite 
dark  now,  and  his  face  is  much  thinner  than  it  was ;  but  he  is 
very  handsome  still — is  he  not,  sir?"  turning  to  the  valet. 

"Ah!  ah!  well  enough,"  said   Mr,  Harrison,  stretching  out 


THE    DISOWNED.  if^ 

his  right  leg  and  falling  away  a  little  to  the  left,  in  the  manner 
adopted  by  the  renowned  Gil  Bias,  in  his  address  to  the  fair 
Laura — "well  enough;  but  he's  a  UtUie.  too  taU . aad;  thin,  7 
think."  .1  ■(■::. :•)    .■;:-;•■;►  v;i  <.ti  :. 

Mr.  Harrison's  faults  in  shape  were  certainly  not  those; -of 
being  too  tall  and  thin.  (.  . 

"  Perhaps  so  ! "  said  Miss  Elizabeth,  who  scented  the  vanity 
by  a  kindred  instinct,  and  had  her  own  reasons  for  pampering 
it — "  Perhaps  so  !  " 

"  But  he  is  a  great  favorite  with  the  ladies  all  the  same  ;  how- 
ever, he  only  loves  one  lady.  Ah,  but  I  must  not  say  who, 
though  I  know.  However,  she  is  so  handsome  ;  such  eyes,  they 
would  go  through  you  like  a  skewer,  but  not  like  yours,  yours 
miss,  which,  I  vow  and  protest,  are  as  bright  as  a  service  of 
plate." 

"  Oh,  sir  ! " 

And  amidst  these  graceful  compliments  the  time  slipped  away, 
till  Clarence's  dinner,  and  his  valet's  supper,  being  fairly  over, 
Mr,  Harrison  presented  himself  to  his  master,  a  perfectly  dif- 
ferent being  in  attendance  to  what  he  was  in  companionships- 
flippancy,  impertinence,  forwardness,  all  merged  in  the  steady, 
sober,  serious  demeanor  which  characterizes  die. respiectful  and 
well-bred  domestic. 

Clarence's  orders  were  soon  given.  They  were  limited  to  the 
appurtenances  of  writing  ;  and  as  soon  as  Harrison  reappeared 
with  his  master's  writing-desk,  he  was  dismissed  for  the  night. 

Very  slowly  did  Clarence  settle  himself  to  his  task,  and  at- 
tempt to  escape  the  ennui  of  his  solitude,  or  the  restlessness, of 
thought  feeding  upon  itself,  by  inditing  the  following  epistle : 

"to  THE  DUKE  OF  HAVERFIELD. 

"I  WAS  very  unfortunate,  my  dear  Duke,  to  miss  seeing  yon, 
when  I  called  in  Arlington  Street,  the  evening  before  last,  for  I 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you  — something  upon  public  and 
a  little  upon  private  affairs.  I  will  reserve  t'^e  latter,  since  I 
only  am  the  person  concerned,  for  a  future  opportunity.  With 
respect  to  the  former,         *         *         *         *         *         * 

"And  now,  having  finished  the  political  part  of  my  letter,  let 
me  congratulate  you  most  sincerely  upon  your  approaching 
marriage  with  Miss  Trevanion.  I  do  not  know  her  myself; 
but  I  remember  that  she  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Lady  Flora 
Ardenne,  whom  I  have  often  heard  speak  of  her  in  the  highest 
and  most  affectionate  terms,  so  that  I  imagine  her  brother  could 
not  better  atone  to  you  for  dishonestly  carrying  off  the  fair  Julia 


ftSo  THE   DISOWNED. 

some  three  years  ago,  than  by  giving  you  his  sister  in  honor- 
able  and  orthodox  exchange — tlie  gold  armor  for  the  brazen. 

"As  for  my  lot,  though  I  ought  not,  at  this  moment,  to  dim 
yours  by  dwelling  upon  it,  you  know  how  long,  how  constantly, 
how  ardently  I  have  loved  Lady  Flora  Ardenne — how,  for  her 
sake,  I  have  refused  opportunities  of  alliance  which  might  have 
gratified,  to  the  utmost,  that  worldliness  of  heart  which  so 
many  who  saw  me  only  in  the  crowd  have  been  pleased  to  im- 
pute to  me.  You  know  that  neither  pleasure,  nor  change,  nor 
the  insult  I  received  from  her  parents,  nor  the  sudden  indiffer- 
ence which  I  so  little  deserved  from  herself,  have  been  able  to 
obliterate  her  image.  You  will  therefore  sympathize  with  me, 
when  I  inform  you  that  there  is  no  longer  any  doubt  of  her 
marriage  with  Borodaile  (or  rather  Lord  Ulswater,  since  his 
father's  death),  as  soon  as  the  sixth  month  of  his  mourning  ex- 
pires ;  to  this  period  only  two  months  remain. 

"Heavens  !  when  one  thinks  over  the  past,  how  incredulous 
one  could  become  to  the  future :  when  I  recall  all  the  tokens 
of  love  I  received  from  that  woman,  I  cannot  persuade  myself 
that  they  are  now  all  forgotten,  or  rather,  all  lavished  upon 
another. 

"But  I  do  not  blame  her — may  she  be  happier  with  him  than 
she  could  have  been  with  me  !  and  that  hope  shall  whisper  peace 
to  regrets  which  I  have  been  foolish  to  indulge  so  long,  and  it 
is  perhaps  w^ell  for  me  that  they  are  about  to  be  rendered  for- 
ever unavailing. 

"  I  am  staying  at  an  inn,  without  books,  companions,  or  any 
thing  to  beguile  time  and  thought,  but  this  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 
You  will  see,  therefore,  a  reason  and  an  excuse  for  my  scribbling 
on  to  you,  till  my  two  sheets  are  filled,  and  the  hour  of  ten  (one 
can't  well  go  to  bed  earlier)  arrived. 

"You  remember  having  often  heard  me  speak  of  a  very  ex- 
traordinary man  whom  I  met  in  Italy,  and  with  whom  1  became 
intimate.  He  returned  to  England  some  months  ago  ;  and  on 
hearing  it  my  desire  of  renewing  our  acquaintance  was  so  great 
that  I  wrote  to  invite  myself  to  his  house.  He  gave  me  what 
is  termed  a  very  obliging  answer,  and  left  the  choice  of  time 
to  myself.  You  see  now,  most  noble  Festus,  the  reason  of  my 
journey  hitherwards. 

"  His  house,  a  fine  old  mansion,  is  situated  about  five  or  six 
miles  from  this  town  :  and,  as  I  arrived  here  late  in  the  even- 
ing, and  knew  that  his  habits  were  reserved  and  peculiar,  I 
thought  it  better  to  take  'mine  ease  in  my  inn'  for  this  night, 
And  defer  my  visit  to  Mordaunt  Court  till  to-morrow  morning. 


THE  DiSOWNE©,  zBl 

In  truth,  I -was  not  averse  to  renewing  an  old  acquaintance — • 
not,  as  you  in  your  malice  would  suspect,  with  my  hostess,  but 
with  her  house.  Some  years  ago,  when  I  was  eighteen,  I  first 
made  a  slight  acquaintance  with  Mordaunt  at  this  very  inn,  and 
now,  at  twenty-six,  I  am  glad  to  have  one  evening  to  myself 
on  the  same  spot,  and  retrace  here  all  that  has  since  happened 
to  me. 

**  Now,  do  not  be  alarmed  ;  1  am  not  going  to  inflict  upon 
you  the  unquiet  retrospect  with  which  I  have  just  been  vexing 
myself;  no,  I  will  rather  speak  to  you  of  my  acquaintance  and 
host  to  be.  I  have  said  that  I  first  met  Mordaunt  some  years 
since  at  this  inn — an  accident,  for  which  his  horse  was  to  blame, 
brought  us  acquainted— I  spent  a  day  at  his  house,  and  was 
much  interested  in  his  conversation  ;  since  then,  we  did  not 
meet  till  about  two  years  and  a  half  ago,  when  we  were  in  Italy 
together.  During  the  intermediate  interval  Mordaunt  had 
married — lost  his  property  by  a  lawsuit—disappeared  from  the 
world  (whither  none  knew)  for  some  years — recovered  the 
estate  he  had  lost  by  the  death  of  his  kinsman's  heir,  and  shortly 
afterwards  by  that  of  the  kinsman  himself,  and  had  become  a 
widower,  with  one  only  child,  a  beautiful  little  girl  of  about 
four  years  old.  He  lived  in  perfect  seclusion,  avoided  all  inter- 
course with  society,  and  seemed  so  perfectly  unconscious  of 
having  ever  seen  me  before,  whenever  in  our  rides  or  walks  we 
met,  that  1  could  not  venture  to  intrude  myself  on  a  reserve  so 
rigid  and  unbroken  as  that  which  characterized  his  habits  and 
life. 

"The  gloom  and  loneliness,  however,  in  which  Mordaunt's 
days  were  spent,  were  far  from  partaking  of  that  selfishness  so 
common,  almost  so  necessarily  common,  to  recluses.  Wherever 
he  had  gone  in  his  travels  through   Ital}',  he  had  left  light  and 

rejoicing  behind  him.     In  his  residence  at ,  whileunknown 

to  the  great  and  gay,  he  was  familiar  with  the  outcast  and  the 
destitute.  The  prison,  the  hospital,  the  sordid  cabins  of  want, 
the  abodes  (so  frequent  in  Italy,  that  emporium  of  artists  and 
poets)  where  genius  struggled  against  poverty  and  its  own 
improvidence — all  these  were  the  spots  to  which  his  visits  were 
paid,  and  in  which  'the  very  stones  prated  of  his  whereabout.' 
It  was  a  strange  and  striking  contrast  to  compare  the  sickly 
enthusiasm  of  those  who  flocked  to  Italy,  to  lavish  their  senti- 
ments on  statues,  and  their  wealth  on  the  modern  imjX)sitions 
palmed  upon  their  taste  as  the  masterpieces  of  ancient  art — it 
was  a  noble  contrast,  I  say,  to  compare  that  ludicrous  and  idle 
entliusiasm  with  the  quiet  and  wholesome  energ^y  of  mind  and 


tSi  THE   DISOWNED. 

heart  whidi  led  Mordaunt,  not  to  pour  forth  worship  and  homaga 
to  the  unconscious  monuments  of  the  dead,  but  to  console,  to 
relieve,  and  to  sustain  the  woes,  the  wants,  the  feebleness,  of 
the  living. 

"  Yet,  while  he  was  thus  employed  in  reducing  the  miseries 
and  enlarging  the  happiness  of  others,  the  most  settled  melan- 
choly seemed  to  mark  himself 'as  her  own.'  Clad  in  the 
deepest  mourning,  a  stern  and  unbroken  gloom  sat  for  ever 
upon  his  countenance.  I  have  observed,  that  if  in  his  walks 
or  rides  any  one,  especially  of  the  better  classes,  appeared  to 
approach,  he  would  strike  into  a  new  path.  He  could  not  bear 
even  the  scrutiny  of  a  glance  or  the  fellowship  of  a  moment : 
and  his  mien,  high  and  haughty,  seemed  not  only  to  repel 
others,  but  to  contradict  the  meekness  and  charity  which  his 
own  actions  so  invariably  and  unequivocally  displayed.  It 
must,  indeed,  have  been  a  powerful  exertion  of  principle  over 
feeling,  which  induced  him  voluntarily  to  seek  the  abodes  and 
intercourse  of  the  rude  beings  he  blessed  and  relieved. 

"We  met  at  two  or  three  places  to  which  my  weak  and  imper- 
fect charity  had  led  me,  especially  at  the  house  of  a  sickly  and 
distressed  artist ;  for  in  former  life  1  had  intimately  known  one 
of  that  profession  ;  and  I  have  since  attempted  to  transfer  to 
his  brethren  that  debt  of  kindness  which  an  early  death  for- 
bade me  to  discharge  to  himself.  It  was  thus  that  I  first 
became  acquainted  with  Mordaunt's  occupations  and  pursuits: 
for  what  ennobled  his  benevolence  was  the  remarkable  obscurity 
in  which  it  was  veiled.  It  was  in  disguise  and  in  secret  that 
his  generosity  flowed ;  and  so  studiously  did  he  conceal  his 
name,  and  hide  even  his  features,  during  his  brief  visits  to 'the 
house  of  mourning,'  that  only  one,  like  myself,  a  close  and 
minute  investigator  of  whatever  has  once  become  an  object  of 
interest,  could  have  traced  his  hand  in  the  various  works  of 
happiness  it  had  aided  or  created. 

"One  day,  among  some  old  ruins,  I  met  him  with  his  young 
daughter.  By  great  good  fortune  I  preserved  the  latter,  who 
had  wandered  away  from  her  father,  from  a  fall  of  loose  stones, 
which  would  inevitably  have  crushed  her.  I  was  myself  much 
hurt  by  my  effort,  having  received  upon  my  shoulder  a  frag- 
ment of  the  falling  stones ;  and  thus  our  old  acquaintance  was 
renewed,  and  gradually  ripened  into  intimacy;  not,  I  must  own, 
without  great  patience  and  constant  endeavor  on  my  part :  for 
his  gloom  and  lonely  habits  rendered  him  utterly  impracticable 
of  access  to  any  (as  Lord  Aspeden  would  say)  but  a  diplo- 
matist.    I  saw  a  great   deal  of  him  during  the  six  months  I 


THE   DISOWNED.  283 

remained  in  Italy,  and — but  you  know  already  how  warmly  I 
admire  his  extraordinary  powers,  and  venerate  his  character.— 
Lord  Aspeden's  recall  to  England  separated  us. 

"A  general   election  ensued.     I   was  returned  for .     I 

entered  eagerly  into  domestic  politics — your  friendship,  Lord 
Aspeden's  kindness,  my  own  wealth  and  industry,  made  my 
success  almost  unprecedentedly  rapid.  Engaged,  heart  and 
hand,  in  those  minute  yet  engrossing  labors  for  which  the 
aspirant  in  parliamentary  and  state  intrigue  must  unhappily 
forego  the  more  enlarged  though  abstruser  speculations  of 
general  philosophy,  and  of  that  morality  which  .may  be  termed 
universal  politics,  I  have  necessarily  been  employed  in  very 
different  pursuits  from  those  to  which  Mordaunt's  contempla- 
tions are  devoted,  yet  have  I  often  recalled  his  maxims,  with 
admiration  at  their  depth,  and  obtained  applause  for  opinions 
which  were  only  imperfectly  filtered  from  the  pure  springs  of 
his  own. 

"  It  is  about  six  months  since  he  has  returned  to  England, 
and  he  has  very  lately  obtained  a  seat  in  Parliament — so  that 
we  may  trust  soon  to  see  his  talents  displayed  upon  a  more 
public  and  enlarged  theatre  than  they  hitherto  have  been  ; 
and,  though  I  fear  his  politics  will  be  opposed  to  ours,  I  anti- 
cipate his  public  debut  with  that  interest  which  genius,  even 
when  adverse  to  one's  self,  always  inspires.  Yet  I  confess  that 
I  am  desirous  to  see  and  converse  with  him  once  more  in  the 
familiarity  and  kindness  of  private  intercourse.  The  rage  of 
party,  the  narrowness  of  sectarian  zeal,  soon  exclude  from  oirr 
friendshipall  those  who  differ  from  our  opinions;  and  it  islike 
sailors  holding  commune  for  the  last  time  with  each  other, 
before  their  several  vessels  are  divided  by  the  perilous  and 
uncertain  sea,  to  confer  in  peace  and  retirement  for  a  little 
while  with  those  who  are  about  to  be  launched  with  us  on  that 
same  unquiet  ocean,  where  any  momentary  caprice  of  the  winds 
may  disjoin  us  forever,  and  where  our  very  union  is  only  a 
sympathy  in  toil,  and  a  fellowship  in  danger. 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  Duke  !  it  is  fortunate  for  me  that  our 
public  opinions  are  so  closely  allied,  and  that  I  may  so  reason- 
ably calculate  in  private  upon  the  happiness  and  honor  of 
subscribing  myself  your  "affectionate  friend,  C.  L." 

Such  was  the  letter  to  which  we  shall  leave  the  explanation 

of  much  that  has  taken  place  within  the  last  three  years  of  our 

'tale,  and  which,  in  its  tone,  will  serve  to  show  the  kindness 

^iiid  generosity  of  heart  and  feeling  that  mingled  (rather  in- 


284  ^ME   DISOWNED. 

creased  than  abated  by  the  time  which  brought  wisdom)  with 
the  hardy  activity  and  resolute  ambition  that  characterized  the 
mind  of  our  "Disowned."  We  now  consign  him  to  such 
repose  as  the  best  bed- room  in  the  Golden  Fleece  can  afford, 
and  conclude  the  chapter. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

"  Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment  all  vernal  and  bright. 
In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combined 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 
And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 

Be  hush'd,  my  dark  spirit,  for  Wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore  ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore  !  " — Campbell. 

"  Shall  I  order  the  carriage  round,  sir } "  said  Harrison  ;  "  it  is 
past  one." 

"Yes;  yet  stay;  the  day  is  fine  ;  I  will  ride.  Let  the  car- 
riage come  on  in  the  evening  ;  see  that  my  horse  is  saddled  ; 
you  looked  to  his  mash  last  night?" 

"  I  did,  sir.  He  seems  wonderfully  fresh  ;  would  you  please 
to  have  me  stay  here  with  the  carriage,  sir,  till  the  groom 
comes  on  with  the  other  horse  ?" 

•    "  Ay  ;  do — I  don't  know  yet  how  far  strange  servants  may 
be  welcome  where  I  am  going." 

"  Now,  that's  lucky!"  said  Harrison  to  himself  as  he  shut 
the  door  ;  "  I  shall  have  a  good  five  hours'  opportunity  of 
making  ray  court  here.  Miss  Elizabeth  is  really  a  very  pretty 
girl,  and  might  not  be  a  bad  match.  I  don't  see  any  brothers; 
who  knows  but  she  may  succeed  to  the  inn — hem  !  A  servant 
may  be  ambitious  as  well  as  his  master,  I  suppose  ?" 

So  meditating,  Harrison  sauntered  to  the  stables — saw  (for 
he  was  an  admirable  servant,  and  could,  at  a  pinch,  dress  a 
horse  as  well  as  its  master)  that  Clarence's  beautiful  steed  re- 
ceived the  utmost  nicety  of  grooming  which  the  ostler  could 
bestow— led  it  himself  to  the  door^ — held  the  stirrup  for  his 
master,  with  the  mingled  Inimility  and  grace  of  his  profession, 
and  then  strutted  away,  "  pride  on  his  brow  and  glory  in  his 
eye,"  to  be  the  cynosure  and  oracle  of  the  tap-room. 

Meanwhile,  Linden  rode  slowly  onwards.  As  he  passed  that 
jturn  of  the  town  by  which  he  had  for  the  first  time  entered  it, 


THE  DISOWNED.  485 

the  recollection  of  the  eccentric  and  would-be  gipsy  flashed 
upon  him.  "I  wonder,"  thought  he,  "where  that  singular  man 
is  now — whether  he  still  preserves  his  itinerant  and  woodland 
tastes : 

"  '  Si  flumina  sylvasque  inglorius  amet.'  * 
or  whether,  as  his  family  increased  in  age  or  number,  he  has 
turned  from  his  wanderings,  and  at  length  found  out  '  the 
peaceful  herniitage.'  How  glowingly  the  whole  scene  of  that 
night  comes  across  me — the  wild  tents,  their  wilder  habitants, 
the  mingled  bluntness,  poetry,  honest  good  nature,  and  spirit 
of  enterprise  wliich  constituted  the  chief's  nature — the  jovial 
meal  and  mirth  round  the  wood  fire,  and  beneath  the  quiet 
stars,  and  the  eagerness  and  zest  with  which  I  then  mingled  in 
the  merriment.  Alas  ! — how  ill  the  fastidiousness  and  refine- 
ment of  after-days  repay  us  for  the  elastic,  buoyant,  ready  zeal 
with  which  our  first  youth  enters  into  whatever  is  joyous,  with- 
out pausing  to  ask  if  its  cause  and  nature  be  congenial  to  our 
habits  or  kindred  to  our  tastes.  After  all,  there  really  was 
something  philosophical  in  the  romance  of  the  jovial  gypsy, 
childish  as  it  seemed;  and  I  should  like  much  to  know  if  the 
philosophy  has  got  the  better  of  the  romance,  or  the  romance, 
growing  into  habit,  become  commonplace,  and  lost  both  its 
philosophy  and  its  enthusiasm.  Well,  after  I  leave  Mordaunt, 
I  will  try  and  find  out  my  old  friend." 

With  this  resolution,  Clarence's  thoughts  took  a  new  channel, 
and  he  soon  entered  upon  Mordaunt's  domain.  As  he  rode 
through  the  park,  where  brake  and  tree  were  glowing  in  the 
yellow  tints  which  Autumn,  like  Ambition,  gilds  ere  it  withers, 
he  paused  for  a  moment  to  recall  the  scene  as  he  last  beheld 
it.  It  was  then  Spring — Spring  in  its  first  and  flushest  glory — 
when  not  a  blade  of  grass  but  sent  a  perfume  to  the  air — 
the  happy  air, 

"  Making  sweet  music  while  the  young  leaves  danced  ":. 

when  every  cluster  of  the  brown  fern,  that  now  lay  dull  and 
motionless  around  him,  and  amidst  which  the  melancholy  deer 
stood  afar  off,  gazing  upon  the  intruder,  was  vocal  with  the 
blithe  melodies  of  the  infant  year — the  sharp,  yet  sweet,  voices 
of  birds — and  (heard  at  intervals)  the  chirp  of  the  merry 
grasshopper,  or  the  hum  of  the  awakened  bee.  He  sighed,  as 
he  now  looked  around,  and  recalled  the  change,  both  of  time 
and  season  :  and  with  that  fondness  of  heart  which  causes  man 
to  knit  his  own  little  life  to  the  varieties  of  Time,  the  signs 

*  If,  unknown  to  fame,  he  love  the  streatns  and  the  wood*. 


2^^6.  THE   DlSOWNEiJ. 

of  Heaven,  or  the  revolutions  of  Nature,  he  recognized  something 
kindred  in  the  change  of  scene  to  the  change  of  thought  and 
feeling  which  years  had  wrought  in  the  beholder. 

Awaking  from  his  reverie,  he  hastened  his  horse's  pace,  and 
was  soon  within  sight  of  the  house.  Vavasour,  during  the 
few  years  he  had  possessed  the  place,  had  conducted  and 
carried  through  improvements  and  additions  to  the  old  man- 
sion, upon  a  scale  equally  costly  and  judicious.  The  heavy 
and  motley  magnificence  of  the  architecture  in  which  the 
house  had  been  built  remained  unaltered;  but  a  wing  on 
either  side,  though  exactly  corresponding  in .  style  with  the 
intermediate  building,  gave,  by  the  long  colonnade  which  ran 
across  the  one,  and  the  stately  windows  which  adorned  the 
other,  an  air  not  only  of  grander  extent,  but  more  cheerful 
lightness  to  the  massy  and  antiquated  pile.  It  was,  assuredly, 
in  the  point  of  view  by  which  Clarence  now  approached  it,  a 
structure  which  possessed  few  superiors  in  point  of  size  and 
effect  ;  and  harmonized  so  well  with  the  noble  extent  of  the 
park,  the  ancient  woods,  and  the  venerable  avenues,  that  a  very 
slight  effort  of  imagination  might  have  poured  from  the 
massive  portals  the  pageantries  of  old  days,  and  the  gay  gal- 
liard  of  chivalric  romance  with  which  the  scene  was  in  such 
accordance,  and  which  in  a  former  age  it  had  so,, often 
witnessed.  ;   :  <  ,  ( . 

Ah,  little  could  any  one  who  looked  upon  that  gorgeous 
pile,  and  the  broad  lands  which,  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
the  park,  swelled  on  the  hills  of  the  distant  landscape,  studded 
at  frequent  intervals  with  the  spires  and  villages  which 
adorned  the  wide  baronies  of  Mordaunt — little  could  he  who 
thus  gazed  around  have  imagined  that  the  owner  of  all  he 
surveyed  had  passed  the  glory  and  verdure  of  his  manhood  in 
the  bitterest  struggles  with  gnawing  want,  and  rebellious  pride, 
and  urgent  passion,  without  friend  or  aid  but  his  own  haughty 
and  supporting  virtue,  sentenced  to  bear  yet  in  his  wasted  and 
barren  heart  the  sign  of  the  storm  he  had  resisted,  and  the 
scathed  token  of  the  lightning  he  had  braved.  None  but 
Crauford,  who  had  his  own  reasons  for  taciturnity,  and  the 
itinerant  broker,  easily  bribed  into  silence,  had  ever  known  of 
the  extreme  poverty  from  which  Mordaunt  had  passed  to  his 
rightful  possessions.  It  was  whispered,  indeed,  that  he  had 
been  reduced  to  narrow  and  straitened  circumstances  ;  but 
the  whisper  had  been  only  the  breath  of  rumor,  and  the  imag- 
ined poverty  far  short  of  the  reality  :  for  the  pride  of  Mor- 
daunt (the  great,. almost  the  sole  failing  in  his  character)  could 


THE   DISOWNED.  287 

not  endure  that  all  he  had  borne  and  baffled  should  be  bared 
to  the  vulgar  eye  ;  and  by  a  rare  anomaly  of  mind,  indifferent 
as  he  was  to  renown,  he  was  morbidly  susceptible  of  shame. 

When  Clarence  rung  at  the  ivy-covered  porch,  and  made 
inquiry  for  Mordaunt,  he  was  informed  that  the  latter  was  in 
the  park,  by  the  river,  where  most  of  his  hours,  during  the 
daytime,  were  spent. 

"  Shall  I  send  to  acquaint  him  that  you  are  come,  sir  ? " 
said  the  servant. 

"No,"  answered  Clarence,  "I  will  leave  my  horse  to  one  of 
the  grooms,  and  stroll  down  to  the  river  in  search  of  your 
master." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  dismounted,  consigned 
his  steed  to  the  groom,  and,  following  the  direction  indicated 
to  him,  bent  his  way  to  the  "river." 

As  he  descended  the  hill,  the  brook  (for  it  did  not  deserve, 
though  it  received,  a  higher  name)  opened  enchantingly  upon 
his  view.  Amidst  the  fragrant  reed  and  the  wild  flower,  still 
sweet,  though  fading,  and  tufts  of  tedded  grass,  all  of  which, 
when  crushed  beneath  the  foot,  sent  a  mingled  tribute  to  its 
sparkling  waves,  the  wild  stream  took  its  gladsome  course,  now 
contracted  by  gloomy  firs,  which,  bending  over  the  water,  cast 
somewhat  of  their  own  sadness  upon  its  surface — now  glancing 
forth  from  tlie  shade,  as  it  "broke  into  dimples  and  laughed 
in  the  sun," — now  washing  the  gnarled  and  spreading  roots  of 
some  lonely  ash,  which,  hanging  over  it,  still  and  droopingly, 
seemed,  the  hermit  of  the  scene,  to  moralize  on  its  noisy  and 
various  wanderings — now  winding  round  the  hill,  and  losing 
itself  at  last  amidst  thick  copses,  where  day  did  never  more 
than  wink  and  glimmer,  and  where,  at  night,  its  waters,  brawl- 
ing through  their  stony  channel,  seemed  like  a  spirit's  wail, 
and  harmonized  well  with  the  scream  of  the  gray  owl,  wheeling 
from  her  dim  retreat,  or  the  moaning  and  rare  sound  of  some 
solitary  deer. 

As  Clarence's  eyes  roved  admiringly  over  the  scene  before 
him,  it  dwelt  at  last  upon  a  small  building  situated  on  the 
wildest  part  of  the  opposite  bank  :  it  was  entirely  overgrown 
with  ivy,  and  the  outline  only  remained  to  show  the  gothic 
antiquity  of  the  architecture.  It  was  a  single  square  tower, 
built  none  knew  when  or  wherefore,  and,  consequently,  the 
spot  of  many  vagrant  guesses  and  wild  legends  among  the 
surrounding  gossips.  On  approaching  yet  nearer,  he  per- 
ceived, alone  and  seated  on  a  little  mound  beside  the  tower, 
the  object  of  his  search. 


ZBS  THE    DISOWNED. 

Mordaunt  was  gazing  with  vacant  yet  earnest  eye  upon  the 
waters  beneath ;  and  so  intent  was  either  his  mood  or  look, 
that  he  was  unaware  of  Clarence's  approach.  Tears  fast  and 
large  were  rolling  from  those  haughty  eyes,  which  men  who 
shrunk  from  their  indifferent  glance  little  deemed  were  capable 
of  such  weak  and  feminine  emotion.  Far,  far  through  the 
aching  void  of  time  were  the  thoughts  of  the  reft  and  solitary 
mourner  ;  they  were  dwelling,  in  all  the  vivid  and  keen  inten- 
sity of  grief  which  dies  not,  upon  the  day  when,  about  that 
hour  and  on  that  spot,  he  sate,  with  Isabel's  young  cheek  upon 
his  bosom,  and  listened  to  a  voice  now  only  heard  in  dreams. 
He  recalled  the  moment  when  the  fatal  letter,  charged  with 
change  and  poverty,  was  given  to  him,  and  the  pang  which 
had  rent  his  heart  as  he  looked  around  upon  a  scene  over 
which  spring  had  just  then  breathed,  and  which  he  was  about 
to  leave  to  a  fresh  summer  and  a  new  lord ;  and  then  that 
deep,  fond,  half-fearful  gaze  with  which  Isabel  had  met  his 
eye,  and  the  feeling,  proud  even  in  its  melancholy,  with  which 
he  had  drawn  towards  his  breast  all  that  earth  had  left  to 
him,  and  thanked  God  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  she  was 
spared. 

"And  I  am  once  more  master,"  (thought  he)  "not  only  of 
all  I  then  held,  but  all  which  my  wealthier  forefathers  possessed. 
But  she  who  was  the  sharer  of  my  sorrows  and  want — oh,  where 
is  she  ?  Rather,  ah  !  rather  a  hundredfold  that  her  hand  was 
still  clasped  in  mine,  and  her  spirit  supporting  me  through 
poverty  and  trial,  and  her  soft  voice  murmuring  the  comfort 
that  steals  away  care,  than  to  be  thus  heaped  with  wealth  and 
honor,  and  a/one — alone,  where  never  more  can  come  love,  or 
hope,  or  the  yearnings  of  affection,  or  the  sweet  fulness  of  a 
heart  that  seems  fathomless  in  its  tenderness,  yet  overflows  ! 
Had  my  lot,  when  she  left  me,  been  still  the  steepings  of  bitter- 
ness, the  stings  of  penury,  the  moody  silence  of  hope,  the  damp 
and  chill  of  sunless  and  aidless  years,  which  rust  the  very  iron 
of  the  soul  away  :  had  my  lot  been  thus,  as  it  had  been,  I  could 
have  borne  her  death,  I  could  have  looked  upon  her  grave,  and 
wept  not — nay,  I  could  have  comforted  my  own  struggles  with 
the  memory  of  her  escape  ;  but  thus,  at  the  very  moment  of 
prosperity,  to  leave  the  altered  and  promising  earth,  '  to  house 
with  darkness  and  with  death  ';  no  little  gleam  of  sunshine, 
no  brief  recompense  for  the  agonizing  past,  no  momentary  res- 
pite between  tears  and  the  tomb.  Oh,  Heaven  !  what — what 
avail  is  a  wealth  which  comes  too  late,  when  she,  who  could 
alone  have  made  wealth  bliss,  is  dust ;  and  the  light  that  should 


THE    DISOWNED.  289 

have  gilded  many  and  happy  days,  flings  only  a  ghastly  glare 
upon  the  tomb  ?  " 

Starting  from  these  reflections,  Mordaunt  half-unconsciously 
rose,  and,  dashing  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  was  about  to  plunge 
into  the  neighboring  thicket,  when  looking  up,  he  beheld 
Clarence,  now  within  a  few  paces  of  him.  He  started,  and 
seemed  for  one  moment  irresolute  whether  to  meet  or  shun  his 
advance,  but  probably  deeming  it  too  late  for  the  latter,  he 
banished,  by  one  of  those  violent  efforts  with  which  men  of 
proud  and  strong  minds  vanquish  emotion,  all  outward  sign  of 
the  past  agony  ;  and  hastening  towards  his  guest,  greeted  him 
with  a  welcome  which,  though  from  ordinary  hosts  it  might  have 
seemed  cold,  appeared  to  Clarence,  who  knew  his  temper,  more 
cordial  than  he  had  ventured  to  anticipate. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

•*  My  father  urged  me  sair. 

But  my  mither  did  na  speak, 
Though  she  looked  into  my  face, 

Till  my  heart  war  like  to  break." — Auld Robin  Gray. 

**  It  is  rather  singular,"  said  Lady  Westborough  to  her 
daughter,  as  they  sate  alone  one  afternoon  in  the  music-room 
at  Westborough  Park,  *'  it  is  rather  singular  that  Lord  Ulswater 
should  not  have  come  yet.  He  said  he  should  certainly  be 
here  before  three  o'clock." 

"  You  know,  mamma,  that  he  has  some  military  duties  to 

detain  him  at  W ,"  answered  Lady  Flora,  bending  over  a 

drawing,  in  which  she  appeared  to  be  earnestly  engaged. 

"  True,  my  dear,  and  it  was  very  kind  in  Lord to  quarter 

the  troop  he  commands  in  his  native  county  ;  and  very  fortu- 
nate that  W ,  being  his  headquarters,  should  also  be  so  near 

us.  But  I  cannot  conceive  that  any  duty  can  be  sufficiently 
strong  to  detain  him  from  you,"  added  Lady  Westborough, 
who  had  been  accustomed  all  her  life  to  a  devotion  unparalleled 
in  this  age.      "You  seem  very  indulgent,  Flora." 

"  Alas  ! — she  should  rather  say  very  indifferent,"  thought 
Lady  Flora  ;  but  she  did  not  give  her  thought  utterance — she 
only  looked  up  at  her  mother  for  a  moment,  and  smiled  faintly. 

Whether  there  was  something  in  that  smile,  or  in  the  pale 
cheek  of  her  daughter,  that  touched  her,  we  know  not,  but 
Lady  Westborough  %vas  touched  ;  she  threw  her  arms  round 


?90  THE    DISOWNED. 

Lady  Flora's  neck,  kissed  her  fondl}',  and  said,  "You  do  not 
seem  well  to-day,  my  love — are  you  ?  " 

"Oh! — very — very  well,"  answered  Lady  Flora,  returning 
her  mother's  caress,  and  hiding  her  eyes,  to  which  the  tears 
had  started. 

"My  cliild,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  "you  know  that  both 
myself  and  your  father  are  very  desirous  to  see  you  married  to 
Lord  Ulswater — of  high  and  ancient  birth,  of  great  wealth, 
young,  unexceptional  in  person  and  character,  and  warmly 
attached  to  you — it  would  be  impossible  even  for  the  sanguine 
heart  of  a  parent  to  ask  for  you  a  more  eligible  match.  But 
if  the  thought  really  does  make  you  wretched — and  yet,  how 
can  it  ?" 

"  I  have  consented,"  said  Flora  gently  :  "  all  I  ask  is,  do  not 
speak  to  me  more  of  the — the  event  than  you  can  avoid." 

Lady  Westborough  pressed  her  hand,  sighed,  and  replied  not. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  marquis,  who  had  within  the  last 
year  become  a  cripple,  with  the  great  man's  malady,  dira 
podagra,  was  wheeled  in  on  his  easy-chair  :  close  behind  him 
followed  Lord  Ulswater. 

"  1  have  brought  you,"  said  the  marquis,  who  piqued  himself 
on  a  vein  of  dry  humor,  "  I  have  brought  you,  young  lady,  a 
consolation  for  my  ill  humors.  Few  gouty  old  fathers  make 
themselves  as  welcome  as  I  do — eh,  Ulswater  !  " 
■■-  "Dare  I  apply  to  myself  Lord  Westborough's  compliment?" 
said  the  young  nobleman,  advancing  towards  Lady  Flora ;  and 
drawing  his  seat  near  her,  he  entered  into  that  whispered  con- 
versation so  significant  of  courtship.  But  there  was  little  in 
Lady  Flora's  manner^  by  which  an  experienced  eye  would  have 
detected  the  bride  elect :  no  sudden  blush,  no  downcast  yet 
sidelong  look,  no  trembling  of  the  hand,  no  indistinct  confusion 
of  the  voice,  struggling  with  unanalyzed  emotions.  No — all 
was  calm,  cold,  listless ;  her  cheek  changed  not  tint  nor  hue, 
and  her  words,  clear  and  collected,  seemed  to  contradict  what- 
ever the  low  murmurs  of  her  betrothed  might  well  be  supposed 
to  insinuate.  But,  even  in  his  behavior,  there  was  something 
which,  had  Lady  Westborough  been  less  contented  than  she 
was  with  the  externals  and  surface  of  manner,  would  have 
alarmed  her  for  her  daughter.  A  cloud,  sullen  and  gloomy, 
sate  upon  his  brow,  and  his  lip  alternately  quivered  with  some- 
thing like  scorn,  or  was  compressed  with  a  kind  of  stifled 
passion.  Even  in  the  exultation  that  sparkled  in  his  eye,  when 
he  alluded  to  their  approaching  marriage,  there  was  an  expression 
that  almost  might  have  been  termed  fierce,  and  certainly  was 


THE    DISOWNED.  29! 

as  little  like  the  true  orthodox  ardor  of  "  gentle  swain,"  as 
Lady  Flora's  sad  and  half  unconscious  coldness  resembled  the 
diffident  passion  of  the  "  blushing  maiden." 

"You  have  considerably  passed  the  time  in  which  we  expected 
you,  my  lord,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  who,  as  a  beauty  her- 
self, was  a  little  jealous  of  the  deference  due  to  the  beauty  of 
her  daughter. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  glancing  towards  the  op- 
posite glass  and  smoothing  his  right  eyebrow  with  his  fore- 
finger— "it  is  true,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  had  a  great  deal 
of  business  to  do  with  my  troop — I  have  put  them  into  a  new 
manoeuvre.  Do  you  know,  my  Lord  (turning  to  the  marquis) 
I  think  it  very  likely  the  soldiers  may  have  some  work  on  the 
—  of  this  month." 

"  Where,  and  wherefore  ? "  asked  Lord  Westborough,  whom  a 
sudden  twinge  forced  into  the  laconic. 

"  At  W .     Some  idle  fellows  hold  a  meeting  there jon 

that  day;  and  if  1  may  judge  by  bills  and  advertisements, 
chalkings  on  the  walls,  and,  more  than  all,  popular  rumor,  I 
have  no  doubt  but  what  riot  and  sedition  are  intended — the 
magistrates  are  terribly  frightened.  I  hope  we  shall  have  some 
cutting  and  hewing — I  have  no  patience  with  the  rebellious 
dogs." 

"  Foi  shame— for  shame!"  cried  Lady  Westborough,  who, 
though  a  worldly,  was  by  no  means  an  unfeeling,  woman;  "  the 
people  lire  misguided — they  mean  no  harm." 

Lord  Ulswater  smiled  scornfully.  "  I  never  dispute  upon 
politics,  but  at  the  head  of  my  men,"  said  he,  and  turned  the 
convers-ation. 

Shortly  afterwards  Lady  Flora,  complaining  of  indisposition, 
rose,  left  the  apartment,  and  retired  to  her  own  room.  There 
she  sat,  motionless  and  white  as  death,  for  more  than  an  hour. 
A  day  or  two  afterwards  Miss  Trevanion  received  the  following 
letter  from  her  : 

"  Most  heartily,  most  truly  do  I  congratulate  you,  my  dearest 
Eleanor,  upon  your  approaching  marriage.  You  may  reason- 
ably hope  for  all  that  happiness  can  afford  :  and  though  you  do 
affect  (for  I  do  not  think  you  /<?<?/)  a  fear  lest  you  should  not 
be  able  to  fix  a  character,  volatile  and  light,  like  your  lover's; 
yet  when  I  recollect  his  warmth  of  heart,  and  high  sense,  and 
your  beauty,  gentleness,  charms  of  conversation,  and  purely 
disinterested  love  for  one  whose  great  worldly  advantages  mighJ 
so  easily  bias  or  adulterate  affection,  I  own  that  I  have  no 
dread  for  your  future  fate  ;  no  feeling  that  can  at  all  darken 


292  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  brightness  of  anticipation.  Thank  you,  dearest,  for  the 
delicate  kindness  with  which  you  allude  to  my  destiny — me, 
indeed,  you  cannot  congratulate  as  I  can  you.  But  do  not 
grieve  for  me,  my  own  generous  Eleanor  :  if  not  happy,  I 
shall,  I  trust,  be  at  least  contented.  My  poor  father  implored 
me  with  tears  in  his  eyes — my  mother  pressed  my  hand,  but 
spoke  not ;  and  I — I  whose  affections  were  withered,  and  hopes 
strewn,  should  I  not  have  been  hard-hearted  indeed,  if  they 
had  not  wrung  from  me  a  consent  ?  And,  oh  !  should  I  not 
be  utterly  lost  if,  in  that  consent  which  blessed  them,  I  did 
not  find  something  of  peace  and  consolation  ? 

"  Yes,  dearest,  in  two  months,  only  two  months,  I  shall  be  Lord 
Uls water's  wife  ;  and  when  we  meet,  you  shall  look  narrowly 
at  me,  and  see  if  he  or  you  have  any  right  to  complain  of  me. 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Linden  lately  ?  Yet,  do  not  answer 
the  question  ;  I  ought  not  to  cherish  still  that  fatal  clinging 
interest  for  one  who  has  so  utterly  forgotten  me.  But  I  do 
rejoice  in  his  prosperity  :  and  when  I  hear  his  praises,  and 
watch  his  career,  I  feel  proud  that  I  should  once  have  loved 
him  !  Oh,  how  could  he  be  so  false,  so  cruel,  in  the  very  midst 
of  his  professions  of  undying,  unswerving  faith  to  me,  at  the 
very  moment  when  I  was  ill,  miserable,  wasting  my  very  heart, 
for  anxiety  on  his  account — and  such  a  woman  too  !  And  had 
he  loved  me,  even  though  his  letter  was  returned,  would  not 
his  conscience  have  told  him  he  deserved  it,  and  would  he  not 
have  sought  me  out  in  person,  and  endeavored  to  win  from  my 
folly  his  forgiveness.  But  without  attempting  to  see  me,  or 
speak  to  me,  or  soothe  a  displeasure  so  natural,  to  leave  the 
country  in  silence,  almost  in  disdain  ;  and  when  we  met  again, 
to  greet  me  with  coldness,  and  hauteur,  and  never  betray  by 
word,  sign,  or  look,  that  he  had  ever  been  to  me  more  than  the 
merest  stranger !  Fool,  fool,  that  I  am,  to  waste  another 
thought  upon  him  ;  but  I  will  not,  and  ought  not  to  do  so.  In 
two  months  I  shall  not  even  have  the  privilege  of  remem- 
brance. 

"I  wish,  Eleanor — for  I  assure  you  that  I  have  tried  and 
tried — that  I  could  find  anything  to  like  and  esteem  (since  love 
is  out  of  the  question)  in  this  man,  who  seems  so  great,  and,  to 
me,  so  unaccountable  a  favorite  with  my  parents.  His  coun- 
tenance and  voice  are  so  harsh  and  stern  ;  his  manner  at  once 
so  self-complacent  and  gloomy  ;  his  sentiments  so  narrow, 
even  in  their  notions  of  honor ;  his  very  courage  so  savage, 
and  his  pride  so  constant  and  offensive,  that  I  in  vain  endeavor 
to  persuade  myself  of    his  virtues,  and  recur,  at  least,  to  the 


THE  DISOWNED.  295 

unwearying  affection  for  me  which  he  professes.  It  is  true 
that  he  has  been  three  times  refused  ;  that  I  have  told  him 
that  I  cannot  love  him ;  that  I  have  even  owned  former  love  to 
another :  he  still  continues  his  suit,  and  by  dint  of  long  hope 
has  at  length  succeeded.  But  at  times  I  could  almost  think 
that  he  married  me  from  very  hate,  rather  than  love,  there  is 
such  an  artificial  smoothness  in  his  stern  voice,  such  a  latent 
meaning  in  his  eye  ;  and  when  he  thinks  I  have  not  noticed 
him,  I  have,  on  suddenly  turning  towards  him,  perceived  so 
dark  and  lowering  an  expression  upon  his  countenance  that  ray 
heart  has  died  within  me  for  very  fear. 

'*  Had  my  mother  been  the  least  less  kind,  my  father  the 
least  less  urgent,  I  think,  nay,  I  know,  I  could  not  have  gained 
such  a  victory  over  myself  as  I  have  done  in  consenting  to  the 
day.  But  enough  of  this.  I  did  not  think  I  should  have  run 
on  so  long  and  so  foolishly  ;  butwe,  dearest,  have  been  children, 
and  girls,  and  women  together  :  we  have  loved  each  other  with 
such  fondness  and  unreserve  that  opening  my  heart  to  you 
seems  only  another  phrase  for  thinking  aloud. 

"However,  in  two  months  I  shall  have  no  right  even  to 
thoughts — perhaps  I  may  not  even  love  you.  Till  then,  dearest 
Eleanor,  I  am,  as  ever,  your  affectionate  and  faithful  friend, 

"F.  A." 

Had  Lord  Westborough,  indeed,  been  "  less  urgent,"  or  her 
mother  "less  kind,"  nothing  could  ever  have  wrung  from 
Lady  Flora  her  consent  to  a  marriage  so  ungenial  and  ill- 
omened. 

Thrice  had  Lord  Ulswater  (then  Lord  Borodaile)  been  re- 
fused, before  finally  accepted  ;  and  those  who  judge  only  from 
the  ordinary  effects  of  pride,  would  be  astonished  that  he 
should  have  still  persevered.  But  his  pride  was  that  deep-rooted 
feeling  which,  so  far  from  being  repelled  by  a  single  blow, 
fights  stubbornly  and  doggedly  onward,  till  the  battle  is  over 
and  its  object  gained.  From  the  moment  he  had  resolved  to 
address  Lady  Flora  Ardenne,  he  had  also  resolved  to  win  her. 
For  three  years,  despite  of  a  refusal,  first  gently,  then  more, 
peremptorily,  urged,  he  fixed  himself  in  her  train.  He  gave 
out  that  he  was  her  affianced.  In  all  parties,  in  all  places,  he 
forced  himself  near  her,  unheeded  alike  of  her  frowns  or  indif- 
ference ;  and  his  rank,  his  hauteur,  his  fierceness  of  mien,  and  ac- 
knowledged courage,  kept  aloof  all  the  less  arrogant  and  hardy 
pretenders  to  Lady  Flora's  favor.  For  this,  indeed,  she  rather 
thanked  than  blamed  him  ;  and  it  was  the  only  thing  which  in 


«94  THE   DISOWNED, 

the  least  reconciled  her  modesty  to  his  advances  or  her  pride 
to  his  presumption. 

He  had  been  prudent  as  well  as  bold.  The  father  he  had 
served,  and  the  mother  he  had  won.  Lord  Westborough,  ad- 
dicted a  little  to  politics,  a  good  deal  to  show,  and  devotedly 
to  gaming,  was  often  greatly  and  seriously  embarrassed.  Lord 
Ulswater,  even  during  the  life  of  his  father  (who  was  lavishly 
generous  to  him),  was  provided  with  the  means  of  relieving 
his  intended  father-in-law's  necessities  ;  and  caring  little  for 
money  in  comparison  to  a  desired  object,  he  was  willing  enough, 
we  do  not  say  to  bribe,  but  to  influence  Lord  Westborough's 
consent.  These  matters  of  arrangement  were  by  no  means 
concealed  from  the  marchioness,  who,  herself  ostentatious  and 
profuse,  was  in  no  small  degree  benefited  by  them  ;  and 
though  they  did  not  solely  procure,  yet  they  certainly  contri- 
buted, to  conciliate  her  favor. 

Few  people  are  designedly  and  systematically  widced  ;  even 
the  worst  find  good  motives  for  bad  deeds ;  and  are  as  intent 
upon  discovering  glosses  for  conduct,  to  deceive  themselves  as 
to  delude  others.  What  wonder,  then,  that  poor  Lady  West- 
borough,  never  too  rigidly  addicted  to  self-examination,  and 
viewing  all  things  through  a  very  worldly  medium,  saw  only  in 
the  alternate  art  and  urgency  employed  against  her  daughter's 
real  happiness,  the  various  praiseworthy  motives  of  permanently 
disentangling  Lady  Flora  from  an  unworthy  attachment,  of 
procuring  for  her  an  establishment  proportioned  to  her  rani?, 
and  a  husband  whose  attachment,  already  shown  by  such 
singular  perseverance,  was  so  likely  to  afford  her  everything 
which,  in  Lady  Westborough's  eyes,  constituted  felicity. 

All  our  friends,  perhaps,  desire  our  happiness  ;  but,  then, 
it  must  invariably  be  in  their  own  way.  What  a  pity  that  they 
do  not  employ  the  same  zeal  in  making  us  happy  in  ours! 


CHAPTER  LXIL 

"  If  thou  criest  after  Knowledge,  and  liftest  up  thy  voice  for  understanding  ; 
If  thou  seekest  her  as  silver,-  and  searchest  for  her  as  for  hid  treasures  ; 
Then  shall  thou  understand  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  aiid  find  the  knowledge 
of  God." 

Proverbs,  ch.  ii.,  ver.  3,4,  5. 

While  Clarence  was  thus  misjudged  by  one  whose  af- 
fections and  conduct  he,  in  turn,  naturally  misinterpreted — • 
while  Lady  Flora  was  alternately  struggling  against  arid  sub- 


THE   DISOWNED.  295 

mitling  to  the  fate  which  Lady  Westbarpugh  saw  approach 
with  gladness — the  father  with  indifference,  and  the  bridegroom 
vyith  a  pride  that  partook  less  of  rapture  than  revenge,  our  un- 
fortunate lover  was  endeavoring  to  glean,  from  Mordaunt's 
conversation  and  example,  somewhat  of  that  philosophy  so  rare 
except  in  the  theories  of  the  civilized  and  the  occasional 
practice  of  the  barbarian,  which  thqugh  it  cannot  give  us  a 
charm  against  misfortune,  bestows  ^.t  least  upon  us  the 
energy  to  support  it. 

We  have  said  already,  that  when  the  fjrst  impression  pro- 
duced by  Mordaunt's  apparent  pride  and  coldness  wore  aw^y, 
it  required  little  penetration  to  discover  the  benevolence  and 
warmth  of  his  mind.  But  none  ignorant  of  his  original  dispo- 
sition, or  the  misfortunes  of  his  life,  could  ever  have  pierced 
the  depth  of  his  self-sacrificing  nature,  or  measured  the  height 
of  his  lofty  and  devoted  virtue.  Many  men  may,  perhaps,  be 
found,  who  will  give  up  to  duty  ^a  cherished  wish,  or  even  a 
darling  vice,  but  few  will  ever  renounce  to  it  their  rooted /r/j/^y, 
or  the  indulgence  of  those  habits  which  have  almost  become, 
by  long  use,  their  happiness  itself.  Naturally  melancholy  and 
thoughtful,  feeding  the  sensibilities  of  his  heart  upon  fiction, 
and  though  addicted  to  the  cultivation  of  reason  rather  than 
fancy,  having  perhaps  more  of  the  deeper  and  acuter  charac- 
teristics of  the  poet,  than  those  calm  and  halfrcallous  proper- 
ties of  nature  supposed  to  belong  to  the  metaphysician  and 
the  calculating  moralist,  Mordaunt  was  above  all  men  fondly 
addicted  to  solitude,  and  inclined  to  contemplations  less  use- 
iul  than  profound. 

The  untimely  death  of  Jsabel,  whom  he  had  loved  with  that 
love  which  is  the  vent  of  hoarded  and  passionate  musings,  long 
nourished  upon  romance,  and  lavishing  the  wealth  of  a  soul 
that  overflows  with  secreted,  tenderness  upon  the  J^rsf  object 
that  can  bring  reality  to  fiction— that  event  had  not  only 
darkened  melancholy  into  gloom,  but  had  made  loneliness  still 
more  dear  to  his  habits  by  all  the  ties  of  memory, ;and  all  the 
.consecrations  of  regret.  The  companionless  wanderings — the 
midnight  closet — the  thoughts  which,  as  Hume  said  of  his  own, 
could  not  exist  in  the  \yorld,  but  were  all  busy  with  life  in  ser 
elusion  :  these  were  rendered  sweeter  than  ever  to  a  mind  for 
which  the  ordinary  objects  of  the  world  were  now  utterly  lover 
less;  and  the  musings  of  solitude  had  become,  as  it  were,  a 
rightful  homage  and  offering  to  the  dead  !  We  may  form,  then, 
some  idea  of  the  extent  to  which,  in  Mordaunt's  character, 
principle  predominated  over  inclination,  and. regard  for  pth.ers 


ig6  THE   DISOWNED. 

over  the  love  of  self,  when  we  see  him  tearing  his  spirit  from 
its  beloved  retreats  and  abstracted  contemplations,  and  devot- 
ing it  to  duties  from  which  its  fastidious  and  refined  character- 
istics were  particularly  calculated  to  revolt.  When  we  have 
considered  his  attachment  to  the  hermitage,  we  can  appreciate 
the  virtue  which  made  him  among  the  most  active  citizens  in 
the  great  world  ;  when  we  have  considered  the  natural  selfish- 
ness of  grief,  the  pride  of  philosophy,  the  indolence  of  medi- 
tation, the  eloquence  of  wealth,  which  says, "rest  and  toil  not," 
and  the  temptation  within,  which  says,  "obey  the  voice";— 
when  we  have  considered  these,  we  can  perhaps  do  justice  to 
the  man  who,  sometimes  on  foot  and  in  the  coarsest  attire, 
travelled  from  inn  to  inn,  and  from  hut  to  hut ;  who  made 
human  misery  the  object  of  his  search,  and  human  happiness 
of  his  desire  ;  who,  breaking  aside  an  aversion  to  rude  contact, 
almost  feminine  in  its  extreme,  voluntarily  sought  the  meanest 
companions,  and  subjected  himself  to  the  coarsest  inwusions  ; 
for  whom  the  wail  of  affliction,  or  the  moan  of  hunger  was  as 
a  summons  which  allowed  neither  hesitation  nor  appeal ;  who 
seemed  possessed  of  an  ubiquity  for  the  purposes  of  good,  al- 
most resembling  that  attributed  to  the  wanderer  in  the  magni- 
ficent fable  of  "  Melmoth,"  for  the  temptations  to  evil ;  who, 
by  a  zeal  and  labor  that  brought  to  habit  and  inclination  a 
thousand  martyrdoms,  made  his  life  a  very  hour-glass,  in  which 
each  sand  was  a  good  deed  or  a  virtuous  design. 

Many  plunge  into  public  affairs,  to  which  they  have  had  a 
previous  distaste,  from  the  desire  of  losing  the  memory  of  a  pri- 
vate affliction  ;  but  so  far  from  wishing  to  heal  the  wounds  of 
remembrance  by  the  anodynes  which  society  can  afford,  it  was 
only  in  retirement  that  Mordaunt  found  the  flowers  from  which 
balm  could  be  distilled.  Many  are  through  vanity  magnani- 
mous, and  benevolent  from  the  selfishness  of  fame  ;  but,  so  far 
from  seeking  applause,  where  he  bestowed  favor,  Mordaunt 
had  sedulously  shrouded  himself  in  darkness  and  disguise. 
And  by  that  increasing  propensity  to  quiet,  so  often  found 
among  those  addicted  to  lofty  or  abstruse  contemplation,  he 
had  conquered  the  ambition  of  youth  with  the  philosophy  of  a 
manhood  that  had  forestalled  the  affections  of  age.  Many,  in 
short,  have  become  great  or  good  to  the  community  by  individ- 
ual motives  easily  resolved  into  common  and  earthly  elements 
of  desire  ;  but  they  who  inquire  diligently  into  human  nature 
have  not  often  the  exalted  happiness  to  record  a  character  like 
Mordaunt's,  actuated  purely  by  a  systematic  principle  of  love, 
which  covered  mankind,  as  heaven  does  earth,  with  an  atmos- 


THE   DISOWNED.  297 

phere  of  light  extending  to  the  remotest  corners,  and  penetrat- 
ing the  darkest  recesses. 

It  was  one  of  those  violent  and  gusty  evenings,  which  give 
to  an  English  autumn  something  rude,  rather  than  gentle,  in 
its  characteristics,  that  Mordaunt  and  Clarence  sate  together, 

"  And  sowed  the  hoars  with  various  seeds  of  talk." 

The  young  Isabel,  the  only  living  relic  of  the  departed  one,  sat 
by  her  father's  side,  upon  the  floor  ;  and,  though  their  dis- 
course was  far  beyond  the  comprehension  of  her  years,  yet 
did  she  seem  to  listen  with  a  quiet  and  absorbed  attention. 
In  truth,  child  as  she  was,  she  so  loved,  and  almost  wor- 
shipped, her  father,  that  the  very  tones  of  his  voice  had  in 
them  a  charm,  which  could  always  vibrate,  as  it  were,  to  her 
heart,  and  hush  her  into  silence  ;  and  that  melancholy  and 
deep,  though  somewhat  low  voice,  when  it  swelled  or  trembled 
with  thought — which  in  Mordaunt  was  feeling — made  her  sad, 
she  knew  not  why  ;  and  when  she  heard  it,  she  would  creep 
to  his  side,  and  put  her  little  hand  on  his,  and  look  up  at  him 
with  eyes  in  whose  tender  and  glistening  blue  the  spirit  of  her 
mother  seemed  to  float.  She  was  serious,  and  thoughtful,  and 
loving,  beyond  the  usual  capacities  of  childhood  ;  perhapis 
her  solitary  condition,  and  habits  of  constant  intercourse  with 
one  so  grave  as  Mordaunt,  and  who  always,  when  not  absent 
on  his  excursions  of  charity,  loved  her  to  be  with  him,  had 
given  to  her  mind  a  precocity  of  feeling,  and  tinctured  the  sim- 
plicity of  infancy  with  what  ought  to  have  been  the  colors  of 
after-years.  She  was  not  inclined  to  the  sports  of  lier  age — 
she  loved,  rather,  and  above  all  else,  to  sit  by  Mordaunt'sside, 
and  silently  pore  over  some  book,  or  feminine  task,  and  to  steal 
her  eyes  every  now  and  then  away  from  her  employment,  in 
order  to  watch  his  motions,  or  provide  for  whatever  her  vigi- 
lant kindness  of  heart  imagined  he  desired.  And  often,  when 
he  saw  her  fairy  form  hovering  about  him,  and  attending  on  his 
wants,  or  her  beautiful  countenance  glow  with  pleasure,  when 
she  fancied  she  supplied  them,  he  almost  believed  that  Isabel 
yet  lived,  though  in  another  form,  and  that  a  love  so  intense 
and  holy  as  hers  had  been  might  transmigrate,  but  could  not 
perish. 

The  young  Isabel  had  displayed  a  passion  formusic  so  early, 
that  it  almost  seemed  innate  ;  and  as,  from  the  mild  and  wise 
education  she  received,  her  ardor  had  never  been  repelled  on 
the  one  hand  or  overstrained  on  the  other,  so,  though  she  had 
but  just  passed  her  seventh  year,  she  had  attained  to  a  singular 


398  THE   DISOWNED. 

.profiejency  in  the  art — an  art  that  suited  well  with  her  lovely 
face,  and  fond  feelings,  and  innocent  heart ;  and  it  was  almost 
heavenly,  in  the  literal  acceptation  of  the  word,  to  hear  her 
sweet,  though  childish  voice  swell  along  the  still  pure  airs  of 
summer,  and  her  angelic  countenance  all  rapt  and  brilliant 
witli  the  enthusiasm  which  her  own  melodies  created. 

Never  had  she  borne  the  bitter  breath  of  unkindness,  nor 
writhed  beneath  that  customary  injustice  which  punishes  in 
others  the  sins  of  our  own  temper,  and  the  varied  fretfulness 
of  caprice  ;  and  so  she  had  none  of  the  fears  and  meannesses, 
and  a^/<?f/ untruths  which  so  usually  pollute  and  debase  the  in- 
nocence of  childhood.  But  the  promise  of  her  ingenuous 
brow  (over  which  the  silken  hair  flowed,  parted  into  two 
streams  of  gold)  and  of  the  fearless  but  tender  eyes,  and  of 
the  quiet  smile  which  sat  for  ever  upon  the  rosy  mouth,  like  Joy 
watching  Love,  was  kept  in  its  fullest  extent  by  the  mind,  from 
which  all  thoughts,  pure,  kind,  and  guileless  flowed,  like  waters 
from  a  well,  which  a  spirit  has  made  holy  for  its  own  dwell- 
ing. ■■  bn^  ,■■■■■'    ■■"■■■  bi;?vJ  oii^ii  io':  y.:-[  dji'   ..•:■■■■■  •; 

On  this  evening,  we  have  said  that  she  sat  "by  her  father's 
side,  and  listened,  though  she  only  in  part  drank  in  its  sense, 
to  his  conversation  with  his  guest. 

The  room  was  of  great  extent,  and  surrounded  with  books, 
over  which,  at  close  intervals,  the  busts  of  the  departed  Great 
and  the  immortal  Wise  looked  down.  There  was  the  sublime 
beauty  of  Plato,  the  harsher  and  more  earthly  countenance  of 
TuUy,  the  only  Roman  (except  Lucretius)  who  might  have 
been  a  Greek.  There  the  mute  marble  gave  the  broad  front  of 
Bacon  (itself  a  world) — and  there  the  features  of  Locke  showed 
how  the  mind  wears  away  the  links  of  flesh  with  the  file  of 
thought.  And  over  other  departments  of  those  works  which 
remind  us  that  man  is  made  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,  the 
stern  face  of  the  Florentine  who  sung  of  hell,  contrasted  with 
the  quiet  grandeur  enthroned  on  the  fair  brow  of  the  English 
poet — "  blind  but  bold," — and  there  the  glorious,  but  genial 
countenance  of  him  who  has  found  in  all  humanity  a  friend, 
conspicuous  among  sages  and  minstrels,  claimed  brotherhood 
vyith  all. 

The  fire  burned  clear  and  high,  casting  a  rich  twilight  (for 
there  was  no  other  light  in  the  room)  over  that  gothic  chamber, 
and  shining  cheerily  upon  the  varying  countenance  of  Clar- 
ence, and  tlie  more  contemplative  features  of  his  host,  lu  the 
latter  might  you  see  that  care  and  thought  had  been  harsh,  but 
not  unhallowed  companions.     In  the  lines_which  crossed  his  ex- 


THE   DISOWNED.  299 

panse  of  brow,  time  seemed  to  have  buried  many  nopes  ;  but 
his  mien  and  air,  if  loftier,  were  gentler  than  in  younger  days ; 
and  though  they  had  gained  somewhat  in  dignity,  had  lost 
greatly  in  reserve. 

There  was  in  the  old  chamber,  with  its  fretted  roof  and 
ancient  "garniture,"  the  various  books  which  surrounded  it, 
walls  that  the  learned  built  to  serve  themselves,  and  in  the 
marble  likeness  of  those  for  whom  thought  had  won  eternity, 
joined  to  the  hour,  the  breathing  quiet,  and  the  hearth-liglit,  by 
whose  solitary  rays  we  love  best  in  the  eves  of  autumn  to  discourse 
on  graver  or  subtler  themes — there  was  in  all  this  a  spell 
which  seemed  particularly  to  invite  and  to  harmonize  with  that 
tone  of  conversation,  some  portions  of  which  we  are  now 
about  to  relate. 

"  How  loudly,"  said  Clarence,  "  that  last  gust  swept  by — 
you  remember  that  beautiful  couplet  in  Tibullus : 

"  '  Quam  juvat  immites  ventds  audire  cubantem, 
Et  dominam  tenero  detinuisse  sinu.*  "* 

"Ay,"  answered  Mordaunt,  with  a  scarcely  audible  sigh, 
"  that  is  the  feeling  of  the  lover  at  the  *  immites  venios,'  but  we 
sages  of  the  lamp  make  our  mistress  Wisdom,  and  when  the 
winds  rage  without,  it  is  to  her  that  we  cling.  See  how  from 
the  same  object  different  conclusions  are  drawn  !  the  most 
common  externals  of  nature,  the  wind  and  the  wave,  the  stars 
and  the  heavens,  the  very  earth  on  which  we  tread,  never  excite 
in  different  bosoms  the  same  ideas  ;  and  it  is  from  our  own 
hearts,  and  not  from  an  outward  source,  that  we  draw  the  hues 
which  color  the  web  of  our  existence." 

"It  is  true,"  answered  Clarence.  "You  remember  that  in 
two  specks  of  the  moon  the  enamored  maiden  perceived  two 
unfortunate  lovers,  while  the  ambitious  curate  conjectured  that 
they  were  the  spires  of  a  cathedral  ?  But  it  is  not  only  to  our 
feelings,  but  also  to  our  reasonings,  that  we  give  the  colors 
which  they  wear.  The  moral,  for  instance,  which  to  one  man 
seems  atrocious,  to  another  is  divine.  On  the  tendency  of  the 
same  work  what  three  people  will  agree  ?  And  how  shall  the 
most  sanguine  moralist  hope  to  benefit  mankind  when  he  finds 
that,  by  the  multitude,  his  wisest  endeavors  to  instruct  are 
often  considered  but  as  instruments  to  pervert  ?" 

"  I  believe,"  answered  Mordaunt,  "  that  it  is  from  our  ignor- 
ance that  our  contentions  flow  ;  we  debate  with  strife  and  with 

*  Sweet  on  otir  conch  to  hear  the  winds  above, 
And  cling  with  closer  heart  to  her  we  love. 


300  THE    DISOWNED. 

wrath,  with  bickering  and  with  hatred,  but  of  the  thing  debated 
upon  we  remain  in  the  profoundest  darkness.  Like  the  laborers 
of  Babel,  while  we  endeavor  in  vain  to  express  our  meaning  to 
each  other,  the  fabric  by  which,  for  a  common  end,  we  would 
have  ascended  to  heaven  from  the  ills  of  earth  remains  for  ever 
unadvanced  and  incomplete.  Let  us  hope  that  knowledge  is 
the  universal  language  which  shall  reunite  us.  As,  in  their 
sublime  allegory,  the  Ancients  signified  that  only  through 
virtue  we  arrive  at  honor,  so  let  us  believe  that  only  through 
knowledge  can  we  arrive  at  virtue  ! " 

"And  yet,"  said  Clarence,  "  that  seems  a  melancholy  truth 
for  the  mass  of  the  people  who  have  no  time  for  the  researches 
of  wisdom." 

"  Not  so  much  so  as  at  first  we  might  imagine,"  answered 
Mordaunt ;  "  the  few  smooth  all  paths  for  the  many.  The 
precepts  of  knowledge  it  is  difficult  to  extricate  from  error ; 
but,  once  discovered,  they  gradually  pass  into  maxims  ;  and 
thus  what  the  sage's  life  was  consumed  in  acquiring  become 
acquisition  of  a  moment  to  posterity.  Knowledge  is  like  the 
atmosphere, — in  order  to  dispel  the  vapor  and  dislodge  the 
frost,  our  ancestors  felled  the  forest,  drained  the  marsh,  and 
cultivated  the  waste,  and  we  now  breathe  without  an  effort  in 
the  purified  air  and  the  chastened  climate,  the  result  of  the 
labor  of  generations  and  the  progress  of  ages  !  As  to-day,  the 
common  mechanic  may  equal  in  science,  however  inferior  in 
genius,  the  friar  *  whom  his  contemporaries  feared  as  a  ma- 
gician, so  the  opinions  whicli  now  startle  as  well  as  astonish 
may  be  received  hereafter  as  acknowledged  axioms,  and  pass 
into  ordinary  practice.  We  cannot  even  tell  how  far  the 
sanguine  f  theories  of  certain  philosophers  deceive  them  when 
they  anticipate  for  future  ages,  a  knowledge  which  shall  bring 
perfection  to  the  mind,  baffle  the  diseases  of  the  body,  and 
even  protract  to  a  date  now  utterly  unknown  the  final  desti- 
nation of  life  ;  for  Wisdom  is  a  palace  of  which  only  the  vesti- 
bule has  been  entered ;  nor  can  we  guess  what  treasures  are 
hid  in  those  chambers,  of  which  the  experience  of  the  past  can 
afford  us  neither  analogy  nor  clue." 

"  It  was,  then,"  said  Clarence,  who  wished  to  draw  his  com- 
panion into  speaking  of  himself,  "it  was,  then,  from  your 
addiction  to  studies  not  ordinarily  made  the  subject  of  acquisi- 

*  Roger  Bacon. 

+  See  Condorcet  on  the  Progress  of  the  Human  Mind  ;  written  some  years  after  the  sup- 
posed date  of  this  conversation,  but  in  which  there  is  a  slight  but  eloquent  and  afi[ecting 
view  of  the  philosophy  to  which  Mordaunt  refers. 


THE   DISOWNED.  30I 

lion  that  you  date  (pardon  me)  your  generosity,  your  devoted^ 
ness,  your  feeling  for  others,  and  your  indifference  to  self  ?  " 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  Mordaunt  modestly  (and  we  may 
be  permitted  to  crave  attention  to  his  reply,  since  it  unfolds 
the  secret  springs  of  a  character  so  singularly  good  and  pure)  ; 
"you  flatter  me  ;  but  I  will  answer  you  as  if  you  had  put 
the  question  without  the  compliment  ;  nor,  perhaps,  will  it  be 
wholly  uninstructive,  as  it  will  certainly  be  new,  to  sketch,  with- 
out recurrence  to  events,  or  what  I  may  call  exterior  facts,  a 
brief  and  progressive  History  of  One  Human  Mind. 

"  Our  first  era  of  life  is  under  the  influence  of  the  primitive 
feelings  ;  we  are  pleased  and  we  laugh  ;  hurt,  and  we  weep  ; 
we  vent  our  little  passions  the  moment  they  are  excited  ;  and 
so  much  of  novelty  have  we  to  perceive  that  we  have  little 
leisure  to  reflect.  By-and-by  fear  teaches  us  to  restrain  our 
feelings  ;  when  displeased,  we  seek  to  revenge  the  displeasure, 
and  are  punished  ;  we  find  the  excess  of  our  joy,  our  sorrow, 
our  anger,  alike  considered  criminal,  and  chidden  into  restraint. 
From  harshness  we  become  acquainted  with  deceit ;  the  promise 
made  is  not  fulfilled,  the  threat  not  executed,  the  fear  falsely 
excited,  and  the  hope  wilfully  disappointed  :  we  are  surrounded 
by  systematized  delusion,  and  we  imbibe  the  contagion. 

"  From  being  forced  into  concealing  the  thoughts  which  we 
do  conceive,  we  begin  to  affect  those  which  we  do  not ;  so 
early  do  we  learn  the  two  main  tasks  of  life.  To  Suppress  and 
To  Feign,  that  our  memory  will  not  carry  us  beyond  that 
period  of  artifice  to  a  state  of  nature  when  the  twin  principles 
of  veracity  and  belief  were  so  strong  as  to  lead  the  philoso- 
phers of  a  modern  school  into  the  error  of  terming  them  innate.* 

"  It  was  with  a  mind  restless  and  confused — feelings  which 
were  alternately  chilled  and  counterfeited  (the  necessary  results 
of  my  first  tuition),  that  I  was  driven  to  mix  with  others  of  my 
age.  They  did  not  like  me,  nor  do  I  blame  them.  Les 
matiiires  que  Von  neglige  comnie  de  pelifcs  choses,  sont  souvent  ce 
qui  fait  que  les  honimes  (incident  de  vous  en  Men  ou  en  mal.\ 
Manner  is  acquired  so  imperceptibly  that  we  have  given  its 
origin  to  nature,  as  we  do  the  origin  of  all  else  for  which  our 
ignorance  can  find  no  other  source.  Mine  was  unprepossessing  ; 
I  was  disliked,  and  I  returned  the  feeling ;  I  sought  not,  and  I 
was  shunned.  Then  I  thought  that  all  were  unjust  to  me,  and 
I  grew  bitter,  and  sullen,  and  morose  :     I  cased  myself  in  the 

*  Reid  on  the  Human  Mind. 

+  Those  manners  which  one  neglects  as  trifling,  are  often  the  cause  of  the  opinion,  good 
or  bad,  formed  of  you  by  men. 


302  THE    DISOWNED. 

Stubbornness  of  pride,  I  pored  over  the  books  which  spoke  of 
the  worthlessness  of  man,  and  I  indulged  the  discontent  of  my- 
self by  brooding  over  the  frailties  of  my  kind. 

"  My  passions  were  strong,  they  told  me  to  suppress  them. 
The  precept  was  old,  and  seemed  wise — I  attempted  to  enforce 
it.  I  had  already  begun,  in  early  infancy,  the  lesson  :  I  had 
now  only  to  renew  it.  Fortunately  I  was  diverted  from  this 
task,  or,  my  mind,  in  conquering  its  passions,  would  have  con- 
quered its  powers.  I  learnt,  in  after-lessons,  that  the  passions 
are  not  to  be  suppressed — they  are  to  be  directed  ;  and  when 
directed,  rather  to  be  strengthened  than  subdued. 

"Observe  how  a  word  may  influence  a  life  ;  a  man  whose 
opinion  I  esteemed,  made  of  me  the  casual  and  trite  remark, 
that  '  my  nature  was  one  of  which  it  was  impossible  to  augur 
evil  or  good,  it  might  be  extreme  in  either.'  This  observation 
roused  me  into  thought :  could  I  indeed  be  all  that  was  good 
or  evil  ?  had  I  the  choice,  and  could  I  hesitate  which  to  choose  ? 
but  what  was  good  and  what  was  evil.''  that  seemed  the  most 
difficult  inquiry. 

"  I  asked  and  received  no  satisfactory  reply  ;  in  the  words 
of  Erasmus — toiius  negoUi  caput  ac  fontem  ignorant,  divinaiit, 
ac  deliratit  omnes  :*  so  I  resolved  myself  to  inquire  and  to  de- 
cide. I  subjected  to  my  scrutiny  the  moralist  and  the  philoso- 
pher ;  I  saw  that  on  all  sides  they  disputed,  but  I  saw  that  they 
grew  virtuous  in  the  dispute  ;  they  uttered  much  that  was  absurd 
about  the  origin  of  good,  but  much  more  that  was  exalted  in  its 
praise  :  and  I  never  rose  from  any  work  which  treated  ably 
upon  morals,  whatever  were  its  peculiar  opinions,  but  I  felt  my 
breast  enlightened,  and  my  mind  ennobled  by  my  studies.  The 
professor  of  one  sect  commanded  me  to  avoid  the  dogmatist  of 
another,  as  the  propagator  of  moral  poison  ;  and  the  dogma- 
tist retaliated  on  the  professor  ;  but  I  avoided  neither:  I  read 
both,  and  turned  all  'into  honey  and  fine  gold.'  No  inquiry 
into  wisdom,  however  superficial,  is  undeserving  attention.  The 
vagaries  of  the  idlest  fancy  will  often  chance,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  most  useful  discoveries  of  truth,  and  serve  as  a  guide  to 
after  and  to  slower  disciples  of  wisdom;  even  as  the  peckings 
of  birds  in  an  unknown  country  indicate  to  the  adventurous 
;seaman  the  best  and  the  safest  fruits. 

"  From  the  works  of  men  I  looked  into  their  lives,  and  I 
found  that  there  was  a  vast  difference  (though  I  am  not  aware 
that  it  has  before  been  remarked)  between  those  who  cultivate 
a  talent,  and  those  who  cultivate  the  mind j  I  found  that  the 

*  All  ignore,  guess,  and  rave  about  the  head  and  fountain  of  the  whole  question  at  issue. 


THE  DISOWNED.  503 

were  men  of  genius  were  often  erring  or  criminal  in  their  lives  ; 
but  that  vice  or  crime  in  the  disciples  of  philosophy  was  strik- 
ingly unfrequent  and  rare.  The  extremest  culture  of  reason 
had  not,  it  is  true,  been  yet  carried  far  enough  to  preserve  the 
laborer  from  follies  of  opinion,  but  a  moderate  culture  had 
been  sufficient  to  deter  him  from  the  vices  of  life.  And  only 
to  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  as  of  old  to  the  sages  of  the  East, 
seemed  given  the  unerring  star,  which,  through  the  travail  of 
Earth  and  the  clouds  of  Heaven,  led  them  at  the  last  to  their 
God! 

"  When  I  gleaned  this  fact  from  biography,  I  paused,  and 
said — 'Then  must  there  be  something  excellent  in  Wisdom,  if 
it  can,  even  in  its  most  imperfect  disciples,  be  thus  beneficial 
to  morality.'  Pursuing  this  sentiment  I  redoubled  my  re- 
searches, and  behold  the  object  of  my  quest  was  won  !  I  had 
before  sought  a  satisfactory  answer  to  the  question,  'What  is 
Virtue  ?'  from  men  of  a  thousand  tenets,  and  my  heart  had  re- 
jected all  I  had  received.  'Virtue,'  said  some,  and  my  soul 
bowed  reverently  to  the  dictate,  *  Virtue  is  religion.'  I  heard  and 
humbled  myself  before  the  Divine  Book.  Let  me  trust  that  I 
did  not  humble  myself  in  vain  !  But  the  dictate  satisfied  less 
tlian  it  awed  ;  for  either  it  limited  Virtue  to  the  mere  belief,  or, 
by  extending  it  to  the  practice,  of  Religion,  it  extended  also  in- 
quiry to  the  method  in  which  the  practice  should  be  applied.  But 
with  the  first  interpretation  of  tlie  dictate,  who  could  rest  con- 
tented?— for,  while  in  the  perfect  enforcement  of  the  tenets  of 
our  faith  all  virtue  may  be  found,  so  in  the  passive  and  the 
mere  belief  in  its  divinity,  we  find  only  an  engine  as  applicable 
to  evil  as  to  good:  the  torch  which  should  ilkimine  the 
altar  has  also  lighted  the  stake,  and  the  zeal  of  the  persecutor 
has  been  no  less  sincere  than  the  heroism  of  the  martyr.  Re- 
jecting, therefore,  this  interpretation,  I  accepted  the  other: 
I  felt  in  my  heart,  and  I  rejoiced  as  I  felt  it,  that 
in  the  practice  of  Religion  the  body  of  all  virtue  could 
be  found.  Bift  in  that  conviction,  had  I  at  once  an  answer  to 
my  inquiries? — Could  the  mere  desire  of  good  be  sufficient  to 
attain  it — and  was  the  attempt  at  virtue  synonymous  with  suc- 
cess 7  On  the  contrary,  have  not  those  most  desirous  of  obey- 
ing the  precepts  of  God  often  sinned  the  most  against  their 
spirit,  and  has  not  zeal  been  frequently  the  most  ardent  when 
crime  was  the  most  rife.*     But   what,   if  neither  sincerity  nor 

*  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  they  who  exterminated  the  Albigenses,  established  the 
Inquisition,  lighted  the  fires  at  Smithfield,  were  actuated,  not  by  a  desire  to  do  evil,  but 
(monstrous  as  it  may  seem)  to  do  good  ;  not  to  counteract,  but  to  enforce  what  they  be« 
Ucved  the  wishes  of  the  Almighty  ;  so  that  a  good  intention,  without  the  enlightenment 


304  THE  DISOWNED, 

zeal  was  sufficient  to  constitute  goodness — what,  if  in  the 
breasts  of  the  best  intentioned,  crime  had  been  fostered,  the 
more  dangerously  because  the  more  disguised — what  ensued? — 
That  the  religion  which  they  professed, they  believed, they  adored, 
they  had  also  misunderstood;  and  that  the  precepts  to  be  drawn 
from  the  Holy  Book,  they  had  darkened  by  their  ignorance,  or 
perverted  by  their  passions  !  Here,  then,  at  once  my  enigma 
was  solved  :  here  then,  at  once,  I  was  led  to  the  goal  of  my  in- 
quiry ! — Ignorance,  and  the  perversion  of  passion,  are  but  the 
same  thing — though  under  different  names  ;  for,  only  by  our 
ignorance  are  our  passions  perverted.  Therefore,  what  fol- 
lowed ? — that,  if  by  ignorance  the  greatest  of  God's  gifts  had 
been  turned  to  evil,  Knowledge  alone  was  the  light  by  which 
even  the  pages  of  Religion  should  be  read.  It  followed  that 
the  Providence  that  knew  that  the  nature  it  had  created  should 
be  constantly  in  exercise,  and  that  only  through  labor  comes 
improvement,  had  wisely  ordained  that  we  should  toil  even  for 
the  blessing  of  its  holiest  and  clearest  laws.  It  had  given  us,  in 
Religion,  as  in  this  magnificent  world,  treasures  and  harvests 
which  might  be  called  forth  in  incalculable  abundance  ;  but 
had  decreed  that  through  our  exertions  only  should  they  be 
called  forth ;  a  palace  more  gorgeous  that  the  palace  of  en- 
chantment was  before  us,  but  its  chambers  were  a  labyrinth 
which  required  a  clue. 

"  What  was  that  clue  ?  Was  it  to  be  sought  for  in  the  corners 
of  earth,  or  was  it  not  beneficently  centred  in  ourselves  ?  Wag 
it  not  the  exercise  of  a  power  easy  for  us  to  use,  if  we  would 
dare  to  do  so  ?  Was  it  not  the  simple  exertion  of  the  discern- 
ment granted  to  us  for  all  else  ?  Was  it  not  the  exercise  of  ouf 
reason  ?  *  Reason  ! '  cried  the  Zealot,  '  pernicious  and  hateful 
instrument,  it  is  fraught  with  peril  to  yourself  and  to  others  ; 
do  not  think  for  a  moment  of  employing  an  engine  so  fallacious 
and  so  dangerous.  '  But  I  listened  not  to  the  Zealot :  could 
the  steady  and  bright  torch  which,  even  where  the  Star  of  Beth- 
leh.em  had  withheld  its  diviner  light,  had  guided  some  patient 
and  unwearied  steps  to  the  very  throne  of  Virtue,  become  but 
a  deceitful  meteor  to  him  who  kindled  '\\.for  the  aid  of  Religion, 
and  in  an  eternal  cause  !  Could-  it  be  perilous  to  task  our 
reason,  even  to  the  utmost,  in  the  investigation  of  the  true 
utility  and  hidden  wisdom  of  the  works  of  God,  when  God  him- 
self had  ordained  that  only  through  some  exertion  of  our  reason 

to  direct  it  to  a  fitting  01)3601,  may  be  as  pernicious  to  human  happiness  as  one  of  the  most 
fiendish.  We  are  told  of  a  whole  people  who  used  to  murder  their  guests,  not  from  feroc- 
ity or  interest,  but  from  the  pure  and  praiseworthy  motive  of  obtaining  the  good  qualities^ 
which  they  believed,  by  the  murder  of  the  deceased,  devolved  upon  them. 


THE   DISOWNED,  ^Oj 

should  we  know  either  from  Nature  or  Revelation  that  He 
himself  existed?  'But,'  cried  the  Zealot  again,  'but  mere 
mortal  wisdom  teaches  men  presumption,  and  presumption, 
doubt. '  '  Pardon  me,'  I  answered,  '  it  is  not  Wisdom,  but 
Ignorance,  which  teaches  men  presumption  ;  Genius  may  be 
sometimes  arrogant,  but  nothing  is  so  diffident  as  KnoudeJge.^ 
'  But,'  resumed  the  Zealot,  '  those  accustomed  to  subtle  inquiries 
may  dwell  only  on  the  minutiie  of  faith — inexplicable,  because 
useless  to  explain,  and  argue  from  those  minutiae  against  the 
grand  and  universal  truth,'  'Pardon  me  again  :  it  is  the  petty, 
not  the  enlarged,  mind,  which  prefers  casuistry  to  conviction  ; 
it  is  the  confined  and  short  sight  of  Ignorance  which,  unable 
to  comprehend  the  great  bearings  of  truth,  pries  only  into  its 
narrow  and  obscure  corners,  occupying  itself  in  scrutinizing 
the  atoms  of  apart,  while  the  eagle  eye  of  Wisdom  contemplates, 
in  its  widest  scale,  the  luminous  majesty  of  the  whole.  Survey 
our  faults,  our  errors,  our  vices — fearful  and  fertile  field  ;  trace 
them  to  their  causes — all  those  causes  resolve  themselves  into 
one — Ignorance  ! — For,  as  we  have  already  seen,  that  from  this 
source  flow  the  abuses  of  Religion,  so,  also,  from  this  source 
flow  the  abuses  of  all  other  blessings — of  talents,  of  riches,  of 
power  ;  for  we  abuse  things,  either  because  we  know  not  their 
real  use,  or  because,  with  an  equal  blindness,  we  imagine  the 
abuse  more  adapted  to  our  happiness.  But  as  ignorance,  then, 
is  the  sole  spring  of  evil — so,  as  the  antidote  to  ignorance  is 
knowledge,  /'/  necessarily  follows  that,  were  we  consummate  in 
knowledge,  we  should  be  perfect  in  good.  He  therefore  who 
retards  the  progress  of  intellect  countenances  crime — nay,  to 
a  state,  is  the  greatest  of  criminals  ;  while  he  who  circulates 
that  mental  light  more  precious  than  the  visual,  is  the  holiest 
improver,  and  the  surest  benefactor,  of  his  race  !  Nor  let  us 
believe,  with  the  dupes  of  a  shallow  policy,  that  there  exists 
upon  the  earth  one  prejudice  that  can  be  called  salutary,  or  one 
error  beneficial  to  perpetuate.  As  the  petty  fish,  which  is 
fabled  to  possess  the  property  of  arresting  the  progress  of  the 
largest  vessel  to  which  it  clings,  even  so  may  a  single  prejudice, 
unnoticed  or  despised,  more  than  the  adverse  blast,  or  the 
dead  calm,  delay  the  barque  of  Knowledge  in  the  vast  seas  of 
Time.* 

"It  is  true  that  the  sanguineness  of  philanthropists  may  have 
carried  them  too  far  ;  it  is  true  (for  the  experiment  has  not  yet 
been  made)  that  God  may  have  denied  to  us,  in  this  state,  the 
consummation  of  knowledge,  and  the  consequent  perfection  in 
good  ;  but  because  we  cannot  be  perfect,  arc  we  to  resolve  we 


3o6  tHE   DISOWNED. 

will  be  evil  ?  One  step  in  Knowledge  is  one  step  from  sin: 
one  step  from  sin  is  one  step  nearer  to  Heaven.  Oh  !  never 
let  us  be  deluded  by  those,  who,  for  political  motives,  would 
adulterate  the  divinity  of  religious  truths  :  never  let  us  believe 
that  our  Father  in  Heaven  rewards  most  the  one  talent  unem- 
ployed, or  that  prejudice,  and  indolence,  and  folly,  find  the 
most  favor  in  His  sight  !  The  very  heathen  has  bequeathed 
to  us  a  nobler  estimate  of  his  nature  ;  and  the  same  sentence 
which  so  sublimely  declares  '  Truth  is  the  body  of  God,'  de- 
clares also  'and  light  is  his  shadow.'  * 

"Persuaded,  then,  that  knowledge  contained  the  key  to 
virtue,  it  was  to  knowledge  that  I  applied.  The  first  grand 
lesson  which  it  taught  me  was  the  solution  of  a  phrase  most 
hackneyed,  least  understood,  viz.,  ''common  sense.'  f  It  is  in  the 
Portico  of  the  Greek  sage  that  that  phrase  has  received  its 
legitimate  explanation  ;  it  is  there  we  are  taught  that  'common 
sense  '  signifies  '  the  sense  of  the  common  interest.'  Yes  !  it 
is  the  most  beautiful  truth  in  morals  that  we  have  no  such 
thing  as  a  distinct  or  divided  interest  from  our  race.  In  their 
welfare  is  ours  ;  and,  by  choosing  the  broadest  paths  to  effect 
their  happiness,  we  choose  the  surest  and  the  shortest  to  our 
own.  As  I  read  and  pondered  over  these  truths,  I  was  sen- 
sible that  a  great  change  was  working  a  fresh  world  out  of 
the  former  materials  of  my  mind.  My  passions,  which  before 
I  had  checked  into  uselessness,  or  exerted  to  destruction,  now 
started  forth  in  a  nobler  shape,  and  prepared  for  a  new  direc- 
tion :  instead  of  urging  me  to  individual  aggrandizement,  they 
panted  for  universal  good,  and  coveted  the  reward  of  Ambition, 
only  for  the  triumphs  of  Benevolence. 

"  This  is  one  stage  of  virtue — I  cannot  resist  the  belief  that 
there  is  a  higher  :  it  is  when  we  begin  to  love  virtue,  not  for 
its  objects,  but  itself.  For  there  are  in  knowledge  these  two 
excellences  :  first,  that  it  offers  to  every  man,  the  most  selfish 
and  the  most  exalted,  his  peculiar  inducement  to  good.  It  says 
to  the  former  'Serve  mankind,  and  you  serve  yourself ';  to  the 
latter,  '  In  choosing  the  best  means  to  secure  your  own  happi- 
ness, you  will  have  the  sublime  inducement  of  promoting  the 
happiness  of  mankind.' 

"  The  second  excellence  of  Knowledge  is  that  even  the  selfish 
man,  when  he  has  once  begun  to  love  Virtue  from  little  motives, 
loses  the  motives  as  he  increases  the  love  ;  and  at  last  wor- 
ships the  deity,  where  before  he  only  coveted  the  gold  upon 

♦Plato. 
+  ^OlVOVOIJlIOOVVTj — Sensiis  communis. 


THE   DISOWNED.  307 

its  altar.  And  thus  I  learned  to  love  Virtue  solely  for  its  own 
beauty,  I  said  with  one  who,  among  much  dross,  has  many 
particles  of  ore,  '  If  it  be  not  estimable  in  itself,  I  can  see 
nothing  estimable  in  following  it  for  the  sake  of  a  bargain.'* 

"  I  looked  round  the  world,  and  saw  often  Virtue  in  rags,  and 
Vice  in  purple  :  the  former  conduces  to  happiness,  it  is  true, 
but  the  happiness  \\Q^wi(/nn,  and  not  in  externals.  I  contemned 
the  deceitful  folly  with  which  writers  have  termed  it  poetical 
justice  to  make  the  good  ultimately  prosperous  in  wealth, 
honor,  fortunate  love,  or  successful  desires.  Nothing  false, 
even  in  poetry,  can  be  just  ;  and  that  pretended  moral  is,  of 
all,  the  falsest.  Virtue  is  not  more  exempt  than  Vice  from  the 
ills  of  fate,  but  it  contains  within  itself  always  an  energy  to  re- 
sist them,  and  sometimes  an  anodyne  to  soothe — to  repay  your 
quotation  from  Tibullus  : 

"  '  Crura  sonant  ferro — sed  canit  inter  opus  ! '  f 

"  When  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  set  up  that  divinity  of  this 
nether  earth,  which  Brutus  never  really  understood,  if, 
because  unsuccessful  in  its  efforts,  he  doubted  its  existence,  I 
said  in  the  proud  prayer  with  which  I  worshipped  it :  *  Poverty 
may  humble  my  lot,  but  it  shall  not  debase  thee  ;  Tempta- 
tion may  shake  my  nature,  but  not  the  rock  on  which  thy  tem- 
ple is  based  ;  Misfortune  may  wither  all  the  hopes  that  have 
blossomed  around  thine  altar,  but  I  will  sacrifice  dead  leaves 
when  the  flowers  are  no  more.  Though  all  that  I  have 
loved  perish — all  that  I  have  coveted  fade  away,  I  may  murmur 
at  fate,  but  I  will  have  no  voice  but  that  of  homage  for  thee! 
Nor,  while  thou  smilest  upon  my  way,  would  I  exchange  with 
the  loftiest  and  happiest  of  thy  foes  ! '  More  bitter  than  aught 
of  what  I  then  dreamed  have  been  my  trials,  but  J  have  fulfilled 
my  vow  ! 

"  I  believe  that  alone  to  be  a  true  description  of  Virtue, 
which  makes  it  all-sufficient  to  itself — that  alone  a  just  portrait- 
ure of  its  excellence,  which  does  not  lessen  its  internal  power 
by  exaggerating  its  outward  advantages,  nor  degrade  its  nobili- 
ty by  dwelling  only  on  its  rewards.  The  grandest  moral  of  an- 
cient lore  has  ever  seemed  to  me  that  which  the  picture  of 
Prometheus  affords  :  in  whom  neither  the  shaking  earth,  nor 
the  rending  heaven,  nor  the  rock  without,  nor  the  vulture  within, 
could  cause  regret  for  past  benevolence,  or  terror  for  future 
evil,  or   envy,   even    amidst    tortures,    for    the   dishonorable 

•Lord  Shaftesbury, 
t  The  cHswiJs  clank  on  its  limbs,  but  it  sings  amidst  its  tasks. 


3o8  THE    DISOWNED. 

prosperity  of  his  insulter  !*  Who  that  has  glowed  over  this 
exalted  picture  will  tell  us  that  we  must  make  Virtue  prosper- 
ous in  order  to  allure  to  it,  or  clothe  Vice  with  misery  in  order 
to  revolt  us  from  its  image  !  Oh  !  who,  on  the  contrary,  would 
not  learn  to  adore  Virtue,  from  the  bitterest  sufferings  of  such 
a  votary,  a  hundred-fold  more  than  he  would  learn  to  love  Vice 
from  the  gaudiest  triumphs  of  its  most  fortunate  disciples  ?  " 

Something  there  was  in  Mordaunt's  voice  and  air,  and  the 
impassioned  glow  of  his  countenance,  that,  long  after  he  had 
ceased,  thrilled  in  Clarence's  heart,  "  like  the  remembered 
tone  of  a  mute  lyre."  And  when  a  subsequent  event  led  him 
at  rash  moments  to  doubt  whether  Virtue  was  indeed  the  chief 
good.  Linden  recalled  the  words  of  that  night,  and  the  enthu- 
siasm with  which  they  were  uttered,  repented  that  in  his  doubt 
he  had  wronged  the  truth,  and  felt  that  there  is  a  power  in  the 
deep  heart  of  man  to  which  even  Destiny  is  submitted  ! 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

Will  you  hear  the  letter  ? 
*        *        *        * 

This  IS  the  motley-minded  gentleman  that  I  have  before  met  in  the  forest. 

— As  You  Like  It. 

A.  MORNING  or  two  after  the  conversation  with  which  our  last 
chapter  concluded,  Clarence  received  the  following  letter  from 
the  Duke  of  Haverfield  : 

"Your  letter,  my  dear  Linden,  would  have  been  answered 
before,  but  for  an  occurrence  which  is  generally  supposed  to 
engross  the  whole  attention  of  the  persons  concerned  in  it. 
Let  me  see — ay,  three — yes,  I  have  been  exactly  three  days 
married  !  Upon  my  honor,  there  is  much  less  in  the  event 
than  one  would  imagine  ;  and  the  next  time  it  happens  I  will 
not  put  myself  to  such  amazing  trouble  and  inconvenience 
about  it.  But  one  buys  wisdom  only  by  experience.  Now, 
however,  that  I  have  communicated  to  you  the  fact,  I  expect 
you,  in  the  first  place,  to  excuse  my  negligence  for  not  writing 
before  ;  for  (as  I  know  you  are  fond  of  the  literal  humaniores, 
I  will  give  the  sentiment  the  dignity  of  a  quotation) — 

"  '  Un  veritable  amant  ne  connait  point  d'amis  ; '  f 

and  though  I  have  been  three  days  married,  I  am  still  a  lover 

*  Mercury. — See  the  Prometheus  of  iEschylus. 
t  A  true  lover  recognizes  no  friends. — Corneills. 


THE   DISOWNED.  309 

I»  the  second  place,  I  expect  you  to  be  very  grateful  that,  all 
things  considered,  I  write  to  you  so  soon  ;  it  would  indeed  not 
be  an  ordinary  inducement  that  could  make  me  'put  pen  to 
paper' — (Is  not  that  the  true  vulgar,  commercial,  academical, 
metaphorical  epistolary  style  ?)  so  shortly  after  the  fatal  cere- 
mony. So,  had  I  nothing  to  say  but  in  reply  to  your  com- 
ments on  state  affairs — (hang  them  !) — or  in  applause  of  your 
Italian  friend,  of  whom  I  say,  as  Charles  II.  said  of  the  honest 
yeoman — 'I  can  admire  virtue,  though  I  can't  imitate  it !  '  I 
think  it  highly  probable  that  your  letter  might  still  remain  in  a 
certain  box  of  tortoise-shell  and  gold  (formerly  belonging  to 
the  great  Richelieu,  and  now  in  my  possession),  in  which  I  at 
this  instant  descry,  'with  many  a  glance  of  woe  and  boding 
dire,'  sundry  epistles  in  manifold  handwritings,  all  classed 
under  the  one  fearful  denomination — '  unanswered.' 

"No,  my  good  Linden,  my  heart  is  inditing  of  a  better 
matter  than  this.  Listen  to  me,  and  then  slay  at  your  host's  or 
order  your  swiftest  steed,  as  seems  most  meet  to  you. 

"  You  said  rightly  that  Miss  Trevanion,  now  her  Grace  of 
Haverfield,  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Lady  Flora  Ardenne. 
I  have  often  talked  to  her — viz.,  Eleanor,  not  Lady  Flora — 
about  you,  and  was  renewing  the  conversation  yesterday,  when 
your  letter,  accidentally  lying  before  me,  reminded  me  of  you. 
Sundry  little  secrets  passe,d  in  due  conjugal  course,  from  her 
possession  into  mine.  I  find  that  you  have  been  believed,  by 
Lady  Flora,  to  have  played  the  perfidious  with  La  Meronville— • 
that  she  never  knew  of  your  application  to  her  father,  and 
his  reply — that,  on  the  contrary,  she  accused  you  of  indifference 
in  going  abroad  without  attempting  to  obtain  an  interview,  or 
excuse  your  supposed  infidelity — that  her  heart  is  utterly  averse 
to  an  union  with  that  odious  Lord  Boro — Bah — I  mean  Lord 
Ulswater  ;  and  that — prepare.  Linden — she  still  cherishes  your 
memory,  even  through  time,  change,  and  fancied  desertion, 
with  a  tenderness  which — which — deuce  take  it,  I  never 
could  write  sentiment — but  you  understand  me  ;  so  I  will  not 
conclude  the  phrase.     '  Nothing    in  oratory,'  said  my  cousin 

D ,  who  was,  entre  nous,  more  honest  than  eloquent,  '  like 

a  break  ! ' — *  down!  you  should  have  added,'  said  I. 

"  I  now,  my  dear  Linden,  leave  you  to  your  fate.  For  my 
part,  though  I  own  Lord  Ulswater  is  a  lord  whom  ladies  in 
love  with  the  etcaeteras  of  married  pomp  might  well  desire, 
yet  I  do  think  it  would  be  no  difficult  matter  for  you  to  eclipse 
him  !  I  cannot,  it  is  true,  advise  you  to  run  away  with  Lady 
Flora.     Gentlemen  don't  run  away  with  the  daughters  of  gentle' 


3IO  THE    DISOWNED. 

/nen  ;  but,  without  running  away,  you  may  win  your  betrothed 
and  Lord  Ulswater's  intended.  A  distinguished  member  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  owner  of  Scaisdale,  and  representa- 
tive of  the  most  ancient  branch  of  the  Talbols — 7non  Dieu ! 
you  might  marry  a  queen  dowager  and  decline  settlements  ! 

"And  so,  committing  thee  to  the  guidance  of  that  winged 
god,  who,  if  three  days  afford  any  experience,  has  made  thy 
friend  to  forsake  pleasure  only  to  find  happiness,  I  bid  thee, 
most  gentle  Linden,  farewell.  Haverjield." 

Upon  reading  this  letter,  Clarence  felt  as  a  man  suddenly 
transformed  !  From  an  exterior  of  calm  and  apathy,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  lay  one  bitter  and  corroding  recollection,  he 
passed  at  once  into  a  state  of  emotion,  wild,  agitated,  and  con- 
fused ;  yet,  amidst  all,  was  foremost  a  burning  and  intense 
hope,  which  for  long  years  he  had  not  permitted  himself  to 
form. 

He  descended  into  the  breakfast  parlor.  Mordaunt,  whose 
hours  of  appearing,  though  not  of  rising,  were  much  later  than 
Clarence's,  was  not  yet  down  ;  and  our  lover  had  full  leisure 
to  form  his  plans,  before  his  host  made  his  entree. 

"  Will  you  ride  to-day  ?  "  said  Mordaunt  :  "  there  are  some 
old  ruins  in  the  neighborhood  well  worth  the  trouble  of  a 
visit." 

"  I  grieve  to  say,"  answered  Clarence,  "  that  I  must  take  my 
leave  of  you.  I  have  received  intelligence,  this  morning,  which 
may  greatly  influence  my  future  life,  and  by  which  I  am  obliged 
to  make  an  excursion  to  another  part  of  the  country,  nearly  a 
day's  journey,  on  horseback." 

Mordaunt  looked  at  his  guest,  and  conjectured  by  his  height- 
ened color,  and  an  embarrassment  which  he  in  vain  endeavored 
to  conceal,  that  the  journey  might  have  some  cause  for  its 
suddenness  and  dispatch  which  the  young  senator  had  his 
peculiar  reasons  for  concealing.  Algernon  contented  himself,- 
therefore,  with  expressing  his  regret  at  Linden's  abrupt  depar- 
ture, without  incurring  the  indiscreet  hospitality  of  pressing  a. 
longer  sojourn  beneath  his  roof. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  Clarence's  horse  was  brought  to 
the  door,  and  Harrison  received  orders  to  wait  with  the  carriage 

at  W- ,  until   his  master  returned.     Not  a  little  surprised, 

we  trow,  was  the  worthy  valet  at  his  master's  sudden  attach- 
ment to  equestrian  excursions.  Mordaunt  accompanied  his 
visitor  through  the  park,  and  took  leave  of  him  with  a  warmth 
which  sensibly  touched  Clarence,  in  spite  of  the  absence  and 


TttE    DISOXVNEtt.  ^tl 

excitement  of  his  thoughts  ;  indeed,  the  unaffected  and  simple 
character  of  Linden,  joined  to  his  acute,  bold,  and  cultivated 
mind,  had  taken  strong  hold  of  Mordaunt's  interest  and 
esteem. 

It  was  a  mild  autumnal  morning,  but  thick  clouds  in  the  rear 
prognosticated  rain  ;  and  the  stillness  of  the  wind,  the  low 
fliglit  of  the  swallows,  and  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  slowly- 
gathering  towards  the  nearest  shelter  within  their  appointed 
boundaries,  confirmed  the  inauspicious  omen.  Clarence  had 
passed  the  town  of  W ,  and  was  entering  into  a  road  singu- 
larly hilly,  when  he  "  was  aware,"  as  the  quaint  old  writers  of 
former  days  expressed  themselves,  of  a  tall  stranger,  mounted 
on  a  neat,  well  trimmed  galloway,  who  had  for  the  last  two 
minutes  been  advancing  towards  a  closely  parallel  line  with 
Clarence,  and  had,  by  sundry  glances  and  hems,  denoted  a 
desire  of  commencing  acquaintance  and  conversation  with  his 
fellow  traveller. 

At  last  he  summoned  courage,  and  said,  with  a  respectful, 
though  somewhat  free,  air,  "That  is  a  very  fine  horse  of  yours, 
sir — I  have  seldom  seen  so  fast  a  walker :  if  all  his  other  paces 
are  equally  good,  he  must  be  quite  a  treasure." 

All  men  have  their  vanities.  Clarence's  was  as  much  in  his 
horse's  excellences  as  his  own  ;  and  gratified  even  with  the 
compliment  of  a  stranger,  he  replied  to  it  by  joining  in  the 
praise,  though  with  a  modest  and  measured  forbearance,  which 
the  stranger,  if  gifted  with  penetration,  could  easily  have  dis- 
cerned was  more  affected  than  sincere. 

"And  yet,  sir,"  resumed  Clarence's  new  companion,  "  ray 
little  palfrey  might  perhaps  keep  pace  with  your  steed  ;  look — 
I  lay  the  rein  on  his  neck — and,  you  see,  he  rivals — by  heaven, 
he  outwalks  yours  !  " 

Not  a  little  piqued  and  incensed.  Linden  also  relaxed  hts 
rein,  and  urged  his  horse  to  a  quicker  step  ;  but  the  lesser 
competitor  not  only  sustained,  but  increased  his  superiority  ; 
and  it  was  only  by  breaking  into  a  trot  that  Linden's  impatient 
and  spirited  steed  could  overtake  him.  Hitherto  Clarence  had 
not  honored  his  hew  companion  with  more  than  a  rapid  and 
slight  glance  ;  but  rivalry,  even  in  trifles,  begets  respect,  and 
btir  defeated  hero  now  examined  him  with  a  more  curious  eye. 

The  stranger  was  between  forty  and  fifty — an  age  in  which, 
generally,  very  little  of  the  boy  has  survived  the  advance  of 
manhood  ;  yet  there  was  a  hearty  and  frank  exhilaration  in  the 
manner  and  look  of  the  person  we  describe  which  is  rarely 
found  beyond  the  first  stage  of  youth.      His  features  were 


3l2  THE   1)1SOW!^e5, 

comely  and  clearly  cut,  and  his  air  and  appearance  indicative 
of  a  man  who  might  equally  have  belonged  to  the  middle  or 
the  upper  orders.  But  Clarence's  memory,  as  well  as  attention, 
was  employed  in  his  survey  of  the  stranger  ;  and  he  recognized, 
in  a  countenance  on  which  time  had  passed  very  lightly,  an 
old  and  oft-times  recalled  acquaintance.  However,  he  did  not 
immediately  make  himself  known.  "  I  will  first  see,*'  thought 
he,  "whether  he  can  remember  his  young  guest  in  the  bronzed 
stranger,  after  eight  years*  absence." 

"Well,"  said  Clarence,  as  he  approached  the  owner  of  the 
palfrey,  who  was  laughing  with  childish  glee  at  his  conquest — 
"  well,  you  have  won,  sir  :  but  the  tortoise  might  beat  the  hare 
in  walking,  and  I  content  myself  with  thinking  that  at  a  trot  or 
a  gallop  the  result  of  a  race  would  have  been  very  different." 

*'  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  sir,"  said  the  sturdy  stranger, 
patting  the  arched  neck  of  his  little  favorite;  "if  you  would 
like  to  try  either,  I  should  have  no  objection  to  venture  a 
trifling  wager  on  the  event." 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  smile  in  which 
urbanity  was  a  little  mingled  with  contemptuous  incredulity ; 
"but  I  am  not  now  at  leisure  to  win  your  money  :  I  have  a  long 
day's  journey  before  me,  and  must  not  tire  a  faithful  servant ;  yet 
I  do  candidly  confess  that  I  think"  (and  Clarence's  recollection 
of  the  person  he  addressed  made  him  introduce  the  quotation), 
"  that  my  horse 

'  Excels  a  common  one 
In  shape,  in  courage,  color,  pace,  and  bone.'  " 

"Eh,  sir,"  cried  our  stranger,  as  his  eyes  sparkled  at  the 
verses  :  "  I  would  own  that  your  horse  were  worth  all  the 
horses  in  the  kingdom,  if  you  brought  Will  Shakspeare  to 
prove  it.  And  I  am  also  willing  to  confess  that  your  steed  does 
fairly  merit  the  splendid  praise  which  follows  the  lines  you 
have  quoted  : 

'  Round  hoofed,  short  jointed,  fetlocks  shag  and  long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eyes,  small  head,  and  nostril  wide. 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  passing  strong, 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide.'  " 

**  Come,"  said  Clarence,  "  your  memory  has  atoned  for  your 
horse's  victory,  and  I  quite  forgive  your  conquest,  in  return 
for  your  compliment  ;  but  suffer  me  to  ask  how  long  you  have 
commenced  cavalier.  The  Arab's  tetit  is,  if  I  err  not,  more  a 
badge  of  your  profession  than  the  Arab's  steed.  " 

King  Cole  (for  the  stranger  was  no  less  a  person)  looked  at 


THE   DISOWNED.  313 

hrs  companion  in  surprise.  "So,  you  know  me,  then,  sir  ? 
Well,  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  man  to  turn  honest,  when  people 
have  so  much  readier  a  recollection  of  his  sins  than  his 
reform." 

"  Reform  !  "  quoth  Clarence,  "  am  I  then  to  understand  that 
your  majesty  has  abdicated  your  dominions  under  the  green- 
wood tree  ? " 

"  You  are,"  said  Cole,  eyeing  his  acquaintance  inquisitively ; 
"you  are. 

•*  '  I  fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
I  my  worldly  task  have  done, 

Home  am  gone  and  ta'en  my  wages. ' " 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Clarence  ;  "  but  only  in  part — 
ifor  I  have  often  envied  your  past  state,  and  do  not  know 
enough  of  your  present  to  say  whether  I  should  equally  envy 
ihatr 

"  Why,"  answered  Cole,  "  after  all,  we  commit  a  great  error 
in  imagining  that  it  is  the  living  wood  or  the  dead  wall  which 
makes  happiness.  '  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is ' — and  it  is 
that  which  you  must  envy,  if  you  honor  anything  belonging  to 
me  with  that  feeling." 

*'  The  precept  is  both  good  and  old,"  answered  Clarence ; 
"yet  I  think  it  was  not  a  very  favorite  maxim  of  yours  some 
years  ago.  I  remember  a  time  when  you  thought  no  happi- 
ness could  exist  out  of  *  dingle  and  bosky  dell.'  If  not  very 
intrusive  on  your  secrets,  may  I  know  how  long  you  have 
changed  your  sentiments  and  manner  of  life  !  The  reason  of 
the  change  I  dare  not  presume  to  ask." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  quondam  gypsy,  musingly — "  certainly 
I  have  seen  your  face  before,  and  even  the  tone  of  your  voice 
strikes  me  as  not  wholly  unfamiliar  ;  yet  I  cannot,  for  the  life 
of  me,  guess  whom  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing.  However, 
sir,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  answering  your  questions.  It  was 
just  five  years  ago,  last  summer,  when  I  left  the  Tents  of  Ke- 
dar.  I  now  reside  about  a  mile  hence.  It  is  but  a  hundred 
yards  off  the  high  road,  and  if  you  would  not  object  to  step 
aside  and  suffer  a  rasher,  or  aught  else,  to  be  *  the  shoeing- 
horn  to  draw  on  a  cup  of  ale,'  as  our  plain  forefathers  were 
wont  wittily  to  say,  why,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  show  you  my 
habitation.  You  will  have  a  double  welcome,  from  the  cir- 
cumstance of  my  having  been  absent  from  home  for  the  last 
.  three  days." 

Clarence,  mindful  of  his  journey,  was  about  to  decline  the 


314  THE   DISOWNED. 

invitation,  when  a  few  heavy  drops  falling,  began  to  fulfil  the 
cloudy  promise  of  the  morning.  "  Trust,"  said  Cole,  "one 
who  has  been  for  years  a  watcher  of  the  signs  and  menaces  of 
the  weather — we  shall  have  a  violent  shower  immediately. 
You  have  now  no  choice  but  to  accompany  me  home." 

"Well,"  said  Clarence,  yielding  with  a  good  grace,  "  I  ann 
glad  of  so  good  an  excuse  for  intruding  on  your  hospitality  ; 

"  'O  sky  ! 
Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  cloak  ! '  " 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  the  ex-chief,  too  delighted  to  find  a  com- 
rade so  well  acquainted  with  Shakspeare's  sonnets,  to  heed 
the  little  injustice  Clarence  had  done  the  sky,  in  accusing  it  of 
a  treachery  its  black  clouds  had  by  no  means  deserved. 
"  Eravo,  sir  ;  and  now,  my  palfrey  against  your  steed — trot — 
eh — or  gallop  ?  " 

"  Trot,  if  it  must  be  so,"  said  Clarence  superciliously ;  "but 
I  am  a  few  paces  before  you." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  cried  the  jovial  chief.  "  Little  John's 
mettle  will  be  the  more  up — on  with  you,  sir — he  who  breaks 
into  a  canter  loses — on  !  " 

And  Clarence  slightly  touching  his  beautiful  steed,  the  race 
was  begun.  At  first  his  horse,  which  was  a  remarkable  stepper, 
as  the  modern  Messrs.  Anderson  and  Dyson  would  say,  greatly 
gained  the  advantage.  "To  the  right,"  cried  the  ci-devant 
gypsy,  as  Linden  had  nearly  passed  a  narrow  lane  which  led  to 
the  domain  of  the  ex-king.  The  turn  gave  "  Little  John  "  an 
opportunity  which  he  seized  to  advantage  ;  and,  to  Clarence's 
indignant  surprise,  he  beheld  Cole  now  close  behind — now  be- 
side^— and  now— now — before  !  In  tlie  heat  of  the  moment  he 
put  spurs  rather  too  sharply  to  his  horse,  and  the  spirited  ani- 
mal immediately  passed  his  competitor — but — in  a  canter  ! 

"Victoria,"  cried  Cole,  keeping  back  his  own  steed — "Vic- 
toria—confess it  !  " 

"Pshaw,"  said  Clarence,  petulantly. 

"  Nay,  sir,  never  mind  it,"  quoth  the  retired  sovereign ; 
"perhaps  it  was  but  a  venial  transgression  of  your  horse — and 
on  other  ground  I  should  not  have  beat  you." 

It  is  very  easy  to  be  generous  when  one  is  quite  sure  one  is 
the  victor.  Clarence  felt  this,  and,  muttering  out  something 
about  the  sharp  angle  in  the  road,  turned  abruptly  from  all 
farther  comment  on  the  subject  by  saying,  "  We  are  now,  I 
suppose,  entering  your  territory.  Docs  not  this  white  gate 
lead  to  your  new  (at  least  new  to  me)  abode  ? " 


THE   DISOWNED.  315 

"It  does,"  said  Cole,  opening  the  said  gate,  and  pausing  as 
if  to  suffer  his  guest  and  rival  to  look  around  and  admire. 

The  house,  in  full  view,  was  of  red  brick,  small  and  square, 
faced  with  stone  copings,  and  adorned  in  the  centre  with  a 
gable  roof,  on  which  was  a  ball  of  glittering  metal,  A  flight  of 
stone  steps  led  to  the  porch,  which  was  of  fair  size  and  stately, 
considering  the  proportions  of  the  mansion — over  the  door  was 
a  stone  shield  of  arms,  surmounted  by  a  stag's  head  ;  and 
above  this  heraldic  ornament  was  a  window  of  great  breadth, 
compared  to  the  other  conveniences  of  a  similar  nature.  On 
either  side  of  the  house  ran  a  slight  iron  fence,  the  protection 
of  sundry  plots  of  gay  flowers  and  garden  shrubs,  while  two 
peacocks  were  seen  slowly  stalking  towards  the  enclosure  to 
seek  a  shelter  from  the  increasing  shower.  At  the  back  of  the 
building,  thick  trees  and  a  rising  hill  gave  a  meet  defence  from 
the  winds  of  winter ;  and  in  front,  a  sloping  and  small  lawn 
afforded  pasture  for  a  few  sheep,  and  two  pet  deer.  Towards 
the  end  of  this  lawn  were  two  large  fishponds,  shaded  by  rows 
of  feathered  trees.  On  the  margin  of  each  of  these,  as  if  em- 
blematic of  ancient  customs,  was  a  common  tent ;  and  in  the 
intermediate  space  was  a  rustic  pleasure-house,  fenced  from 
the  encroaching  cattle,  and  half  hid  by  surrounding  laurel,  and 
the  parasite  ivy. 

All  together  there  was  a  quiet  and  old-fashioned  comfort,  and 
even  luxury,  about  the  place,  which  suited  well  with  the  eccen- 
tric character  of  the  abdicated  chief  ;  and  Clarence,  as  he  gazed 
around,  really  felt  that  he  might,  perhaps,  deem  the  last  state  of 
the  owner  not  worse  than  the  first. 

Unmindful  of  the  rain,  which  now  began  to  pour  fast  and  full, 
Cole  suffered  "  Little  John's  "  rein  to  fall  over  his  neck,  and  the 
spoiled  favorite  to  pluck  the  smooth  grass  beneath,  while  he 
pointed  out  to  Clarence  the  various  beauties  of  his  seat. 

"There,  sir,"  said  he,  "by  those  ponds  in  which,  I  assure 
you,  old  Isaac  might  have  fished  with  delight,  I  pass  many  a 
summer's  day.  I  was  always  a  lover  of  the  angle,  and  the  far- 
thest pool  is  the  most  beautiful  bathing  place  imaginable ;  as 
Geoffrey  Chaucer  says : 

*  The  gravel's  gold  ;  the  water  pure  as  glass. 
The  bank^s  round  the  well  environing  ; 
And  scft^  as  velvet  the  young^  grass 
That  thereupon  lustily  come  springing.' 

"  And  in  that  arbor,  Lucy — that  is,  my  wife — sits  in  the  sum* 
mer  evenings  with  her  father  and  our  children  ;  and  then — ah  I 
gee  our  pets  corae  to  welcome  me  " — pointing  to  the  deer,  who 


3i6 


THE   DlSOWKEfi. 


had  advanced  within  a  few  yards  of  him,  but  intimidated  by  the 
stranger,  would  not  venture  within  reach — "Lucy  loved  choos- 
ing her  favorites  among  animals  which  had  formerly  been  wild, 
and  faith  1  loved  it  too.  But  you  observe  the  house,  sir — it  was 
built  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  :  it  belonged  to  my  mother's 
family,  but  my  father  sold  it,  and  his  son  five  years  ago  re- 
bought  it.  Those  arms  belong  to  my  maternal  ancestry.  Look — 
look  at  the  peacocks  creeping  along — poor  pride  theirs  that 
can't  stand  the  shower  !  But,  egad,  that  reminds  me  of  the 
rain.  Come,  sir,  let  us  make  for  shelter."  And,  resuming  their 
progress,  a  minute  more  brought  them  to  the  old-fashioned 
porch.  Cole's  ring  summoned  a  man,  not  decked  in  "livery 
gay,"  but,  "  clad  in  serving  frock,"  who  took  the  horses  with  a 
nod,  lialf  familiar,  half  respectful,  at  his  master's  injunctions  of 
attention  and  hospitality  to  the  stranger's  beast ;  and  then  our 
old  acquaintance,  striking  through  a  small,  low  hall,  ushered 
Clarence  into  the  chief  sitting-room  of  the  mansion. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

*'  We  are  not  poor  ;  although  we  have 
No  roofs  of  cedar,  nor  our  brave 

Baise,  nor  keep 
Account  of  such  a  flock  of  sheep, 

Nor  bullocks  fed 
To  lard  the  shambles  ;  barbies  bred 
To  kiss  our  hands  ;  nor  do  we  wish 
For  Pollio's  lampries  in  our  dish. 

"  If  we  can  meet  and  so  confer 
Both  by  a  shining  salt-cellar, 

And  have  our  roof, 
Although  not  arch'd,  yet  weaiher-proof  : 

And  ceiling  free 
From  tliat  cheap  candle-bawdery  ; 
We'll  eat  our  bean  with  that  full  mirth 
As  we  were  lords  of  all  the  earth." 

Herrick,  from  Horace. 

On  entering  the  room,  Clarence  recognized  Lucy,  whom  eight 
years  had  converted  into  a  sleek  and  portly  matron  of  about 
thirty  two,  without  stealing  from  her  countenance  its  original 
expression  of  mingled  modesty  and  good  nature.  She  hastened 
to  meet  her  husband,  with  an  eager  and  joyous  air  of  welcome 
seldom  seen  on  matrimonial  faces  after  so  many  years  of 
wedlock. 


THE   DISOWNED.  ^17 

A  fine  stout  boy,  of  about  eleven  years  old,  left  a  cross-bow, 
which,  on  his  father's  entrance,  he  had  appeared  earnestly  em- 
ployed in  mending,  to  share  with  his  mother  the  salutations  of 
the  Returned.  An  old  man  sate  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire, 
gazing  on  the  three  with  an  affectionate  and  gladdening  eye, 
and  playfully  detaining  a  child  of  about  four  years  old,  who  was 
struggling  to  escape  to  dear  "  papa  !  " 

The  room  was  of  oak  wainscot,  and  the  furniture  plain,  solid, 
and  strong,  and  cast  in  the  fashion  still  frequently  found  in 
those  country  houses  which  have  remained  unaltered  by  inno- 
vation since  the  days  of  George  II. 

Three  rough-coated  dogs,  of  a  breed  that  would  have  puzzled 
a  connoisseur,  gave  themselves  the  rousing  shake,  and,  desert- 
ing the  luxurious  hearth,  came  in  various  welcome  to  their  mas- 
ter. One  rubbed  himself  against  Cole's  sturdy  legs,  murmur- 
ing soft  rejoicings  :  he  was  the  grandsire  of  the  canine  race, 
and  his  wick  of  life  burnt  low  in  the  socket.  Another  sprung 
up,  almost  to  the  face  of  his  master,  and  yelled  his  very  heart 
out  with  joy :  that  was  the  son,  exulting  in  the  vigor  of  ma- 
tured doghoodi — and  the  third  scrambled  and  tumbled  over  the 
others,  uttering  his  paeans  in  a  shrill  treble,  and  chiding  most 
snappishly  at  his  two  progenitors  for  interfering  with  his  preten- 
sions to  notice:  that  was  the  infant  dog,  the  little  reveller  in  puppy 
childishness  !  Clarence  stood  by  the  door,  with  his  fine  counte- 
nance smiling  benevolently  at  the  happiness  he  beheld,  and  con- 
gratulating himself  that  for  one  moment,  the  group  had  forgot 
that  he  was  a  stranger. 

As  soon  as  our  gypsy  friend  had  kissed  his  wife,  shaken  hands 
with  his  eldest  hope,  shaken  his  head  at  his  youngest,  smiled  his 
salutation  at  the  father-in-law,  and  patted  into  silence  the  ca- 
nine claimants  of  his  favor,  he  turned  to  Clarence,  and  saying, 
half  bashfully,  half  good-humoredly,  "See  what  a  troublesome 
thing  it  is  to  return  home,  even  after  three  days'  absence.  Lucy, 
dearestjwelcome  a  new  friend  I  "  he  placed  a  chair  by  the  fire- 
side for  his  guest,  and  motioned  him  to  be  seated. 

The  chief  expression  of  Clarence's  open  and  bold  counte- 
nance was  centred  in  the  eyes  and  forehead  ;  and  as  he  now 
doffed  his  hat,  which  had  hitherto  concealed  that  expression, 
Lucy  and  her  husband  recognized  him  simultaneously. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,"  cried  the  former,  "  that  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  once  more  !  " 

"  Ah  !  my  young  guest  under  the  gypsy-awning  !"  exclaimed 
the  latter,  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand  :  "where  were  my 
pyes,  that  they  did  not  recognize  you  before  ?  " 


3l8  THE   DISOWNED. 

"Eight  years/'  answered  Clarence,  "have  worked  more 
change  with  me  and  my  friend  here  "  (pointing  to  the  boy 
whom  he  had  left  last  so  mere  a  child),  "than  they  have  with 
you  and  his  blooming  mother.  The  wonder  is,  not  that  you 
did  not  remember  me  before,  but  that  you  remember  me  now  !  " 

"  You  ar^ altered,  sir,  certainly,"  said  the  frank  chief.  "  Your 
face  is  thinner,  and  far  graver  :  and  the  smooth  cheeks  of  the 
boy  (for,  craving  your  pardon,  you  were  little  more  then)  are 
somewhat  darkened  by  thebronzedcomplexion  with  which  time 
honors  the  man." 

And  the  good  Cole  sighed,  as  he  contrasted  Linden's  ardent 
countenance  and  elastic  figure,  when  he  had  last  beheld  him, 
with  the  serious  and  thoughtful  face  of  the  person  now  before 
him  :  yet  did  he  inly  own  that  years,  if  they  had  in  some  things 
deteriorated  from,  had  in  others  improved,  the  effect  of  Clar- 
ence's appearance:  they  had  brought  decision  to  his  mien,  and 
command  to  his  brow,  and  had  enlarged,  to  an  ampler  meas- 
ure of  dignity  and  power  the  proportions  of  his  form.  Some- 
thing too  there  was  in  his  look,  like  that  of  a  man  who  had 
stemmed  fate,  and  won  success  ;  and  the  omen  of  future 
triumph,  which  our  fortune-telling  chief  had  drawn  from  his 
features  when  first  beheld,  seemed  already,  in  no  small  degree, 
to  have  been  fulfilled. 

Having  seen  her  guest  stationed  in  the  seat  of  honor  oppo- 
site her  father,  Lucy  withdrew  for  a  few  moments,  and  when  she 
reappeared,  was  followed  by  a  neat-handed  sort  of  Phillis  for  a 
country-maiden,  bearing  such  kind  of  "savory  messes  "  as  the 
house  might  be  supposed  to  afford. 

"At  all  events,  mine  host,"  said  Clarence,  "you  did  not  de- 
sert the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  when  you  forsook  its  tents." 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  worthy  Cole,  seating  himself  at  the  table, 
"either  under  the  roof  or  the  awning,  we  may  say  in  the  words 
of  the  old  epilogue:  * 

'  We  can  but  bring  you  meat  and  set  you  stools. 
And  to  our  best  cheer  say,  You  all  are  welcome.' 

We  are  plain  people  still ;  but  if  you  can  stay  till  dinner,  you 
shall  have  a  bottle  of  such  wine  as  our  fathers'  honest  souls 
would  have  rejoiced  in." 

"I  am  truly  sorry  that  I  cannot  tarry  with  you,  after  so  fair 
a  promise,"  replied  Clarence  ;  "  but  before  night  I  must  be 
many  miles  hence." 

Lucy  came  forward  timidly.     "  Do  you  remember  this  ring, 

♦  To  the  play  of  "  All  Fools,"  by  Chapman. 


THE    DISOWNED.  319 

sir  ? "  said  she  (presenting  one),  '*  you  dropt  it  in  my  boy's 
frock,  when  we  saw  you  last." 

"I  did  so,"  answered  Clarence.  "  I  trust  that  he  will  not  now 
disdain  a  stranger's  offering — May  it  be  as  ominous  of  good 
luck  to  him  as  my  night  in  your  caravan  has  proved  to  me." 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  prospered,"  said 
Cole — "  now,  let  us  fall  to." 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

"  Out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learned." — Shakspeare. 

"  If  you  are  bent  upon  leaving  us  so  soon, "said  the  honest  Cole, 
as  Clarence,  refusing  all  farther  solicitation  to  stay,  seized  the 
opportunity  which  the  cessation  of  the  rain  afforded  him,  and 
rose  to  depart  :  "  if  you  are  bent  upon  leaving  us  so  soon,  I 
will  accompany  you  back  again  into  the  main  road,  as  in  duty 
bound." 

"What,  immediately  on  your  return  ?  "  said  Clarence— "no, 
no — not  a  step.  What  would  my  fair  hostess  say  to  me  if  1 
suffered  it  ? " 

"  Rather  what  would  she  say  to  me  if  I  neglected  such  a 
courtesy?  Why,  sir,  when  I  meet  one  who  knows  Shakspeare's 
sonnets,  to  say  nothing  of  the  lights  of  the  lesser  stars,  as  well 
as  you,  only  once  in  eight  years,  do  you  not  think  I  would  make 
the  most  of  him  ?  Besides,  it  is  but  a  quarter  of  a  mije  to 
the  road,  and  I  love  walking  after  a  shower." 

"I  am  afraid,  Mrs.  Cole,"  said  Clarence,  "that  I  must  be  sel- 
fish enough  to  accept  the  offer."  And  Mrs.  Cole  blushing  and 
smiling  her  assent  and  adieu,  Clarence  shook  hands  with  the 
whole  party,  grandfather  and  child  included,  and  took  his  de- 
parture. 

As  Cole  was  now  a  pedestrian.  Linden  threw  the  rein  over 
his  arm,  and  walked  on  foot  by  his  host's  side. 

"  So,"  said  he,  smiling,  "1  must  not  inquire  into  the  reasons 
of  your  retirement  ?  " 

''  On  the  contrary,"  replied  Cole  ;  "  I  have  walked  with  you 
the  more  gladly  from  my  desire  of  telling  them  to  you,  for  we 
all  love  to  seem  consistent,  even  in  our  chimeras.  About  six 
years  ago,  I  confess  that  I  began  to^wax  a  little  weary  of  my 
wandering  life  ;  my  child,  in  growing  up,  required  playmates ; 


320  THE    DISOWNED. 

shall  I  own  that  I  did  not  like  him  to  find  them  among  the 
children  of  my  own  comrades?  The  old  scamps  were  good 
enough  for  me,  but  the  young  ones  were  a  little  too  bad  for  my 
son.  Between  you  and  me  only  be  it  said,  my  juvenile  hope 
was  already  a  little  corrupted.  The  dog  Mim — you  remem- 
ber Mini,  sir, — secretly  taught  him  to  filch  as  well  as  if  he  had 
been  a  bantling  of  his  own  ;  and,  faith,  our  smaller  goods  and 
chattels,  especially  of  an  edible  nature,  began  to  disappear, 
with  a  rapidity  and  secrecy  that  our  itinerant  palace  could  very 
ill  sustain.  Among  us  {i.e.,  gypsies)  there  is  a  law  by  which  no 
member  of  the  gang  may  steal  from  another ;  but  my  little 
heaven-instructed  youth  would  by  no  means  abide  by  that  dis- 
tinction ;  and  so  boldly  designed  and  well  executed  were  his 
rogueries  that  my  paternal  anxiety  saw  nothing  before  him  but 
Botany  Bay  on  the  one  hand,  and  Newgate  Courtyard  on  the 
other." 

"  A  sad  prospect  for  the  heir  apparent !  "  quoth  Clarence. 

**  It  was  so  !  "  answered  Cole,  "  and  it  made  me  deliberate. 
Then,  as  one  gets  older  one's  romance  oozes  out  a  little  in 
rheums  and  catarrhs.  I  began  to  perceive  that,  though  I  had 
been  bred,  I  had  not  been  educated,  as  a  gypsy  ;  and,  what 
was  worse,  Lucy,  though  she  never  complained,  felt  that  the 
walls  of  our  palace  were  not  exempt  from  the  damps  of  winter, 
nor  our  royal  state  from  the  Caliban  curses  of 

'  Cramps  and 
Side  stitches  that  do  pen  our  breath  up.' 

She  fell  ill ;  and  during  her  illness  I  had  sundry  bright  visions 
of  warm  rooms  and  coal  fires,  a  friend  with  whom  I  could 
converse  upon  Chaucer,  and  a  tutor  for  my  son,  who  would 
teach  him  other  arts  than  those  of  picking  pockets  and  pilfer- 
ing larders.  Nevertheless,  I  was  a  little  ashamed  of  my  own 
thoughts ;  and  I  do  not  know  whether  they  would  have  been 
yet  put  into  practice,  but  for  a  trifling  circumstance  which  con- 
verted doubt  and  longing  into  certainty. 

"Our  crank  cuffins  had  for  some  time  looked  upon  me  with 
suspicion  and  coldness;  my  superior  privileges  and  comforts  they 
had  at  first  forgiven,  on  account  of  my  birth  and  my  gener- 
osity to  them  ;  but  by  degrees  they  lost  respect  for  the  one  and 
gratitude  for  the  other ;  and  as  I  had  in  a  great  measure  ceased 
from  participating  in  their  adventures,  or,  during  Lucy's  ill- 
ness, which  lasted  several  months,  joining  in  their  festivities, 
they  at  length  considered  me  as  a  drone  in  a  hive,  by  no  means 
compensating  by  my  services  cis  an  ally  for  my  admittance 


THE   DISOWNED.  32 1 

into  their  horde  as  a  stranger.  You  will  easily  conceive,  when 
this  once  became  the  state  of  their  feelings  towards  me,  with 
how  ill  a  temper  they  brooked  the  lordship  of  my  stately  cara- 
van, and  my  assumption  of  superior  command.  Above  all,  the 
women,  who  were  very  much  incensed  at  Lucy's  constant  se- 
clusion from  their  orgies,  fanned  the  increasing  discontent ; 
and,  at  last,  I  verily  believe  that  no  eyesore  could  have  been 
more  grievous  to  the  Egyptians  than  my  wooden  habitation 
and  the  smoke  of  its  single  chimney. 

"  B'rom  ill-will,  the  rascals  proceeded  to  ill-acts ;  and  one 
dark  night,  when  we  were  encamped  on  the  very  same  ground  as 
that  which  we  occupied  when  we  received  you,  three  of  them, 
Mim  at  their  head,  attacked  me  in  mine  own  habitation.  I 
verily  believe,  if  they  had  mastered  me,  they  would  have 
robbed  and  murdered  us  all  except  perhaps  my  son,  whom 
they  thought  I  ill-used,  by  depriving  him  of  Mini's  instructive 
society.  Howbeit,  I  was  still  stirring  when  they  invaded  me, 
and  by  the  help  of  the  poker,  and  a  tolerably  strong  arm,  I  re- 
pelled the  assailants  ;  but  that  very  night  I  passed  from  the 
land  of  Egypt,  and  made  with  all  possible  expedition  to  the 
nearest  town,  which  was,  as  you  may  remember,  W . 

"  Here  the  very  next  day,  I  learnt  that  the  house  I  now  in- 
habit was  to  be  sold.  It  had  (as  I  before  said)  belonged  to 
my  mother's  family,  and  my  father  had  sold  it  a  little  before 
his  death.  It  was  the  home  from  which  I  had  been  stolen, 
and  to  which  I  had  been  returned  :  often  in  my  star-lit  wander- 
ings had  I  flown  to  it  in  thought ;  and  now  it  seemed  as  if 
Providence  itself,  in  offering  to  my  age  the  asylum  I  had  above 
all  others  coveted  for  it,  was  interested  in  my  retirement  from 
the  empire  of  an  ungrateful  people,  and  my  atonement,  in  rest 
for  my  past  sins  in  migration. 

"  Well,  sir,  in  short,  I  became  the  purchaser  of  the  place  you 
have  just  seen,  and  I  now  think  that,  after  all,  there  is  more 
happiness  in  reality  than  romance  ;  like  the  laverock,  here  will 
I  build  my  nest  : 

'  Here  give  my  weary  spirit  rest, 
And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 
Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love.'  " 

"And  your  son,"  said  Clarence,  "has  he  reformed?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered    Cole.      "For  my  part  I  believe   the 

mind  is  less  evil  than   people  say  it  is  ;  its  great  characteristic 

is  imitation,  and  it  will  imitate  the  good  as  well  as  the  bad,  if 

we  will  set  the  example.     I  thank  Heaven,  sir,  that,  my  boy 


322  THE    DISOWNED. 

now  might  go  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  not  filch  a  groat  by 
the  way." 

*'  What  do  you  intend  him  for?"  said  Clarence 

"Why,  he  loves  adventure,  and,  faith,  I  can't  break  him  of 
that,  for  I  love  it,  too,  so  I  think  I  shall  get  him  a  commission 
in  the  army,  in  order  to  give  him  a  fitting  and  legitimate 
sphere  wherein  to  indulge  his  propensities." 

**You  could  not  do  better,"  said  Clarence.  "But  your  fine 
sister,  what  says  she  to  your  amendment.''" 

"  Oh  !  she  wrote  me  a  long  letter  of  congratulation  upon  it ; 
and  every  other  summer,  she  is  graciously  pleased  to  pay  me  a 
visit  of  three  months  long  ;  at  which  time,  I  observe,  that  poor 
Lucy  is  unusually  smart  and  uncomfortable.  We  sit  in  the 
best  room,  and  turn  out  the  dogs  ;  my  father-in-law  smokes  his 
pipe  in  tlie  arbor,  instead  of  the  drawing-room  ;  and  I  receive 
sundry  hints,  all  in  vain-,  on  the  propriety  of  dressing  for 
dinner.  In  return  for  these  attentions  on  our  part,  my  sister 
invariably  brings  my  boy  a  present  of  a  pair  of  white  gloves, 
and  my  wife  a  French  ribbon  of  the  newest  pattern  ;  in  the 
evening,  instead  of  my  reading  Shakspeare,  she  tells  us  anec- 
dotes of  high  life,  and,  when  she  goes  away,  she  gives  us,  in 
return  for  our  hospitality,  a  very  general  and  very  gingerly  in- 
vitation to  her  house.  Lucy  sometimes  talks  to  me  about 
accepting  it ;  but  I  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  all  such  overtures,  and 
so  we  continue  much  better  friends  than  we  should  be  if  we 
saw  more  of  each  other." 

"And  how  long  has  your  father-in-law  been  with  you  ?" 

"Ever  since  we  have  been  here.  He  gave  up  his  farm,  and 
cultivates  mine  for  me  ;  for  I  know  nothing  of  those 
agricultural  matters.  I  made  his  coming  a  little  surprise,  in 
order  to  please  Lucy  ;  you  should  have  witnessed  their  meet- 
ing." 

"  I  think  I  have  now  learned  all  particulars,"  said  Clarence  ; 
"it  only  remains  for  me  to  congratulate  you  ;  but  are  you,  in 
truth,  never  tired  of  the  monotony  and  sameness  of  domestic 
life  ?  " 

"Yes! — and  then  I  do,  as  I  have  just  done — saddle  Little 
John,  and  go  on  an  excursion  of  three  or  four  days,  or  even 
weeks,  just  as  the  whim  seizes  me  ;  for  I  never  return  till  I 
am  driven  back  by  the  yearning  for  home,  and  the  feeling 
that,  after  all  one's  wanderings,  there  is  no  place  like  it 
Whether  in  private  life,  or  public,  sir,  in  parting  with  a  little 
of  one's  liberty  one  gels  a  great  deal  of  comfort  in  exchange." 

"  I  thank  you  truly  for  your  frankness,"  said  Clarence  ;  "  it 


THE   DISOWNED.  323 

has  solved  many  doubts  with  respect  to  you,  that  have  often 
occurred  to  me.  And  now  we  are  in  the  main  road,  and  I 
must  bid  you  farewell ;  we  part,  but  our  paths  lead  to  the  same 
object — you  return  to  happiness,  and  I  seek  it." 

"  Mayji7«  find  it,  and  /  not  lose  it,  sir,"  said  the  wanderer 
reclaimed  ;  and  shaking  hands,  the  pair  parted. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

"  Quicquid  agit  Rufus,  nihil  est,  nisi  Naevia  Rufo, 
Si  gaudet,  si  flet,  si  tacet,  banc,  loquitur  ; 
Coenat,  propinat,  poscit,  negat,  annuit,  una  est 
Nsevia  ;  si  non  sit  Naevia,  mutus  erit. 
Scriberet  hesterna  patri  cum  luce  salufem 
Naevialux,  inquit,  Naevianumen,  ave."* — MART, 

"The  last  time,"  said  Clarence  to  himself,  "that  I  travelled 
this  road,  on  exactly  the  same  errand  that  I  travel  now,  I  do 
remember  that  I  was  honored  by  the  company  of  one,  in  all 
respects  the  opposite  to  mine  honest  host  ;  for,  whereas  in  the 
latter  there  is  a  luxuriant  and  wild  eccentricity,  an  open  and 
blunt  simplicity,  and  a  shrewd  sense,  which  looks  not  after 
pence,  but  peace  ;  so  in  the  mind  of  the  friend  of  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove,  there  was  a  flat  and  wedged-in  primness  and  nar- 
rowness of  thought — an  enclosure  of  bargains  and  profits  of 
all  species, — mustard-pots,  rings,  monkeys,  chains,  jars,  and 
plum-colored  velvet  inexpressibles,  his  ideas,  with  the  true  al- 
chemy of  trade,  turned  them  all  into  gold  ;  yet  was  he  also  as 
shrewd  and  acute  as  he  with  whose  character  he  contrasts-— 
equally  with  him  seeking  comfort  arid  gladness,  and  an  asylum 
for  his  old  age.  Strange  that  all  tempers  should  have  a  com- 
mon object,  and  never  a  common  road  to  it.  But,  since  I  have 
begun  the  contrast,  let  me  hope  that  it  may  be  extended  in  its 
omen  unto  me  ;  let  me  hope  that,  as  my  encountering  with  the 
mercantile  Brown  brought  me  ill-luck  in  my  enterprise,  there- 
by signifying  the  crosses  and  vexations  of  those  who  labor  in 
the  cheateries  and  over-reachings  which  constitute  the  vocation 
of  the  world  ;  so  my  meeting  with  the  philosophical  Cole,  who 
has,  both  in  vagrancy  and  rest,  found  cause  to  boast  of  happi- 
ness, authorities  from   his  studies  to  favor  his  inclination  to 

•Whatever  Rufus  does  U  nothing,  except  Na;via  he  at  his  elbow.  Be  he  joyful  or 
sorrowful,  be  he  even  silent,  he  is  still  harping  upon  her.  He  eats,  he  drinks,  he  a^ks,  he 
denies,  he  assents. — Nsevia  is  his  sole  theme ;  no  Nxvia,  and  he's  dumb.  Yesterday  at 
daybreak,  he  would  fain  write  a  letter  of  salutation  to  his  father  ;  *'  Hail,  Nasvia,  light  •{ 
my  eyes,"  quoth  he  ;  "  hail,  N;evia,  my  divine  one." 


324  TIIE   DISOWNED. 

each,  and  reason  to  despise  what  he,  with  Sir  Kenelm  Digby, 
would  wisely  call, 

•  The  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth'; 

SO  my  meeting  with  him  may  prove  a  token  of  good  speed  to 
mine  errand,  and  thereby  denote  prosperity  to  one  who 
seeks  not  riches,  nor  honor,  nor  the  conquest  of  knaves,  nor 
the  good  word  of  fools,  but  happy  love,  and  the  bourne  of  its 
quiet  home." 

Thus,  half  meditating,  half  moralizing,  and  drawing,  like  a 
true  lover,  an  omen  of  fear  or  hope  from  occurrences  in  which 
plain  reason  could  have  perceived  neither  type  nor  token,  Clar- 
ence continued,  and  concluded,  his  day's  journey.  He  put  up 
at  the  same  little  inn  he  had  visited  three  years  ago,  and 
watched  his  opportunity  of  seeing  Lady  Flora  alone.  More 
fortunate  in  that  respect,  than  he  had  been  before,  such  oppor- 
tunity the  very  next  day  presented  to  him. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

Duke. — Sir  Valentine ' 

Thur. — Yonder  is  Silvia,  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Val. — Thurio,  give  back. —  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

"  I  THINK  mamma,"  said  Lady  Flora  to  her  mother, "  that,  as 
the  morning  is  so  beautiful,  I  will  go  into  the  pavilion  to  finish 
ray  drawing." 

"  But  Lord  Ulswater  will  be  here  in  an  hour,  or  perhaps 
less — may  I  tell  him  where  you  are,  and  suffer  him  to  join 
you." 

"  If  you  will  accompany  him,"  answered  Lady  Flora  coldly, 
as  she  took  up  her  portefeuille  and  withdrew. 

Now  the  pavilion  was  a  small  summer-house  of  stone,  situa- 
ted in  the  most  retired  part  of  tlie  grounds  belonging  to  West- 
borough  Park.  It  was  a  favorite  retreat  with  Lady  Flora,  even 
in  the  winter  months,  for  warm  carpeting,  a  sheltered  site,  and 
a  fireplace,  constructed  more  for  comfort  than  economy,  made 
it  scarcely  less  adapted  to  that  season  tlian  to  the  more  genial 
suns  of  summer. 

The  morning  was  so  bright  and  mild  that  Lady  Flora  left 
open  the  door  as  slie  entered  ;  she  seated  herself  at  the  table, 
and,  unmindful  of  her  pretended  employment,  suffered  the 
portcfenille  to  remain  unopened.     Leaning  her  cheek  upon  her 


THE   DISOWNED.  325 

hand,  she  gazed  vacantly  on  the  ground,  and  scarcely  felt  the 
tears  which  gathered  slowly  to  her  eyes,  but,  falling  not,  re- 
mained within  the  fair  lids,  chill  and  motionless,  as  if  the 
thought  which  drew  them  there  was  born  of  a  sorrow  less  agi- 
tated than  fixed  and  silent. 

The  shadow  of  a  man  darkened  the  threshold,  and  there 
paused. 

Slowly  did  Flora  raise  her  eyes,  and  the  next  moment  Clar- 
ence Linden  was  by  her  side,  and  at  her  feet. 

"  Flora,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  trembling  with  its  own  emotions — 
**  Flora,  have  years  indeed  separated  us  forever — or  dare  I 
hope  that  we  have  misconstrued  each  other's  hearts,  and  that 
at  this  moment  they  yearn  to  be  united  with  more  than  the 
fondness  and  fidelity  of  old? — Speak  to  me,  Flora,  one  word." 

But  she  had  sunk  on  the  chair  overpowered,  surprised,  and 
almost  insensible  ;  and  it  was  not  for  some  moments  that  she 
could  utter  words,  rather  rung  from,  than  dictated  by,  her 
thoughts. 

"  Cruel  and  insulting — for  what  have  you  come  ? — is  it  at 
such  a  time  that  you  taunt  me  with  the  remembrance  of  my 
past  folly,  or  your — your, "  (she  paused  for  a  moment,  confused 
and  hesitating,  but  presently  recovering  herself,  rose  and  added, 
in  a  calmer  tone) — "  Surely,  you  have  no  excuse  for  this  intru- 
sion— you  will  suffer  me  to  leave  you." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Clarence,  violently  agitated — "no! 
Have  you  not  wronged  me,  stung  me,  wounded  me  to  the  core 
by  your  injustice  ! — and  will  you  not  hear  now  how  differently 
I  have  deserved  from  you  ? — On  a  bed  of  fever  and  pain  I 
thought  only  of  you  ;  I  rose  from  it  animated  by  the  hope  of 
winning  you  !  Though,  during  the  danger  of  my  wound,  and 
my  consequent  illness,  your  parents  alone,  of  all  my  intimate 
acquaintances,  neglected  to  honor  with  an  inquiry  the  man 
whom  you  professed  to  consecrate  with  your  regard,  yet  scarce- 
ly could  my  hand  trace  a  single  sentence  before  I  wrote  to  you 
requesting  an  interview,  in  order  to  disclose  my  birth,  and 
claim  your  plighted  faith  !  That  letter  was  returned  to  me  un- 
answered, unopened.  My  friend  and  benefactor,  whose  for- 
tune I  now  inherit,  promised  to  call  upon  your  father  and  ad- 
vocate my  cause.  Death  anticipated  his  kindness.  As  soon  as 
my  sorrow  for  his  loss  permitted  me,  I  came  to  this  very  spot. 
For  three  days  I  hovered  about  your  house,  seeking  the  meet- 
ing that  you  would  fain  deny  me  now.  I  could  not  any  longer 
bear  the  torturing  suspense  I  endured — 1  wrote  to  you — your 
father  answered  the  letter.     Here — here  I  have  it  still :  read  I 


^26  THE   DISOWNED. 

note  well  the  cool,  the  damning  insult  of  each  line  !  I  see  that 
you  knew  not  of  this  :  I  rejoice  at  it !  Can  you  wonder  that, 
on  receiving  it,  I  subjected  myself  no  more  to  such  affronts? 
I  hastened  abroad.  On  my  return  I  met  you  !  Where  ?  In 
crowds — in  the  glitter  of  midnight  assemblies — in  the  whirl  of 
what  the  vain  call  pleasure  !  I  observed  your  countenance, 
your  manner  ;  was  there  in  either  a  single  token  of  endearing 
or  regretful  remembrance  ?  None  !  I  strove  to  harden  my 
heart  ;  I  entered  into  politics,  business,  intrigue — I  hoped,  I 
longed,  I  burned  to  forget  you,  but  in  vain  ! 

"  At  last  I  heard  that  Rumor,  tlicugh  it  had  long  preceded, 
had  not  belied,  the  truth,  and  that  you  were  to  be  married — 
married  to  Lord  Ulswater  !  I  will  not  say  what  I  suffered,  or 
how  idly  I  summoned  pride  to  resist  affection  !  But  I  would 
not  have  come  now  to  molest  you,  Flora — to  trouble  your  nup- 
tial rejoicings  with  one  thought  of  me,  if,  forgive  me,  I  had 
not  suddenly  dreamt  that  I  had  cause  to  hope  you  had  mis- 
taken, not  rejected,  my  heart  ;  that — you  turn  away.  Flora ! — 
you  blush  ! — you  weep  ! — Oh,  tell  me,  by  one  word,  one  look, 
that  I  was  not  deceived  ! " 

**  No,  no,  Clarence,"  said  Flora,  struggling  with  her  tears ; 
"it  is  too  late,  too  late  now  !  Why,  why  did  I  not  know  this 
before?  I  have  promised,  I  am  pledged  ? — in  less  than  two 
months  I  shall  be  the  wife  of  another  ! " 

"Never,"  cried  Clarence,  "never!  You  promised  on  a  false 
belief ;  they  will  not  bind  you  to  such  a  promise.  Who  is  he 
that  claims  you  ?  I  am  his  equal  in  birth — in  the  world's 
name — and  oh,  by  what  worlds  his  superior  in  love  !  I  will 
advance  my  claim  to  you  in  his  very  teeth — nay,  I  will  not  stir 
from  these  domains  till  you,  your  father,  and  my  rival,  have 
repaired  my  wrongs." 

"Be  it  so,  sir!" — cried  a  voice  behind,  and  Clarence  turned 
and  beheld  Lord  Ulswater  !  His  dark  countenance  was  flushed 
with  rage,  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  conceal  ;  and  the 
smile  of  scorn  that  he  strove  to  summon  to  his  lip  made  a 
ghastly  and  unnatural  contrast  with  the  lowering  of  his  brow, 
and  the  fire  of  his  eyes — "Be  it  so,  sir,"  he  said,  slowly  ad- 
vancing, and  confronting  Clarence.  "You  will  dispute  my 
claims  to  the  hand  Lady  Flora  Ardenne  has  long  promised  to 
one  who,  however  unworthy  of  the  gift,  knows,  at  least,  how 
to  defend  it.  It  is  well  ;  let  us  finish  the  dispute  elsewhere.  It 
is  not  the  first  time  we  shall  have  met,  if  not  as  rivals,  as  foes." 

Clarence  turned  from  him  without  reply,  for  he  saw  Lady 
Westborough   had  just  entered  the  pavilion,  and  stood  mute 


THE   DISOWNED.  327 

Add  transfixed  at  the  door,  with  surprise,  fear,  and  anger  de- 
picted upon  her  regal  and  beautiful  countenance. 

"It  is  to  you,  madam,"  said  Clarence,  approaching  towards 
her,  "  that  I  venture  to  appeal.  Your  daughter  and  I,  four 
long  years  ago,  exchanged  our  vows  ;  you  flattered  me  with 
the  hope  that  those  vows  were  not  displeasing  to  you  ;  since 
then,  a  misunderstanding,  deadly  to  my  happiness  and  to  hers, 
divided  us.  I  come  now  to  explain  it.  My  birth  may  have 
seemed  obscure;  I  come  to  clear  it:  my  conduct  doubtful;  I 
come  to  vindicate  it.  I  find  Lord  Ulswater  my  rival.  I  am 
willing  to  compare  my  pretensions  to  his.  I  acknowledge  that 
he  has  titles  which  I  have  not, — that  he  has  wealth,  to  which 
mine  is  but  competence — but  titles  and  wealth,  as  the  means 
of  happiness,  are  to  be  referred  to  your  daughter,  to  none  else. 
You  have  only,  in  an  alliance  with  me,  to  consider  my  char- 
acter and  my  lineage ;  the  latter  flows  from  blood  as  pure  as 
that  which  warms  the  veins  of  my  rival ;  the  former  stands 
already  upon  an  eminence  to  which  Lord  Ulswater,  in  his 
loftiest  visions,  could  never  aspire.  For  the  rest,  madam,  I 
adjure  you,  solemnly,  as  you  value  your  peace  of  mind,  your 
daughter's  happiness,  your  freedom  from  the  agonies  of  future 
remorse,  and  unavailing  regret — I  adjure  you  not  to  divorce 
those  whom  God,  who  speaks  in  the  deep  heart,  and  the 
plighted  vow,  has  already  joined.  This  is  a  question  in  which 
your  daughter's  permanent  woe  or  lasting  happiness,  from  this 
present  hour  to  the  last  sand  of  life,  is  concerned.  It  is  to 
her  that  I  refer  it — let  her  be  the  judge." 

And  Clarence  moved  from  Lady  Westborough,  who,  agi- 
tated, confused,  awed  by  the  spell  of  a  power  and  a  nature  of 
which  she  had  not  dreamed,  stood  pale  and  speechless,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  reply — he  moved  from  her  towards  Lord  Flora, 
who  leant,  sobbing  and  convulsed  with  contending  emotions, 
against  the  wall :  but  Lord  Ulswater,  whose  fiery  blood  was 
boiling  with  passion,  placed  himself  between  Clarence  and  the 
unfortunate  object  of  the  contention. 

"Touch  her  not,  ap])roach  her  not !"  he  said,  with  a  fierce 
and  menacing  tone.  "Till  you  have  proved  your  pretensions 
superior  to  mine,  unknown,  presuming,  and  probably  base-born, 
as  you  are,  you  will  only  pass  over  my  body  to  your  claims." 

Clarence  stood  still  for  one  moment,  evidently  striving  to 
master  the  wrath  which  literally  swelled  his  form  beyond  its 
ordinary  proportions  ;  and  Lady  Westborough,  recovering  her- 
self in  the  brief  pause,  passed  between  the  two,  and,  taking 
her  daughter's  arm,  led  her  from  the  pavilion. 


328  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  Stay,  madam,  for  one  instant ! "  cried  Clarence,  and  he 
caught  hold  of  her  robe. 

Lady  Westborough  stood  quite  erect  and  still,  and  drawing 
her  stately  figure  to  its  full  height,  said  with  that  quiet  dignity 
by  which  a  woman  so  often  stills  the  angrier  passions  of  men, 
"I  lay  the  prayer  and  command  of  a  mother  upon  you,  Lord 
Ulswater,  and  on  you,  sir,  whatever  be  your  real  rank  and 
name,  not  to  make  mine  and  my  daughter's  presence  the  scene 
of  a  contest  which  dishonors  both.  Still  farther,  if  Lady 
Flora's  hand  and  my  approval  be  an  object  of  desire  to  either, 
I  make  it  a  peremptory  condition,  with  both  of  you,  that  a 
dispute  already  degrading  to  her  name  pass  not  from  word  to 
act.  For  you,  Mr.  Linden,  if  so  I  may  call  you,  I  promise 
that  my  daughter  shall  be  left  free  and  unbiased  to  give 
that  reply  to  your  singular -conduct  which  I  doubt  not  her 
own  dignity  and  sense  will  suggest !  " 

"By  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Lord  Ulswater,  utterly  beside 
himself  with  rage  which,  suppressed  at  the  beginning  of  Lady 
Westborough's  speech,  had  been  kindled  into  double  fury  by 
its  conclusion,  "  you  will  not  suffer  Lady  Flora,  no,  nor  any 
one  but  her  affianced  bridegroom,  her  only  legitimate  defender, 
to  answer  this  arrogant  intruder  !  You  cannot  think  that  her 
hand,  the  hand  of  my  future  wife,  shall  trace  line  or  word  to 
one  who  has  so  insulted  her  with  his  addresses  and  me  with 
his  rivalry." 

**  Man  ! "  cried  Clarence,  abruptly,  and  seizing  Lord  Ulswater 
fiercely  by  the  arm,  "  there  are  some  causes  which  will  draw 
fire  from  ice — beware — beware  how  you  incense  me  to  pollute 
my  soul  with  the  blood  of  a " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Ulswater. 

Clarence  bent  down  and  whispered  one  word  in  his  ear. 

Had  that  word  been  the  spell  with  which  the  sorcerers  of  old 
disarmed  the  fiend,  it  could  not  have  wrought  a  greater  change 
upon  Lord  Ulswater's  mien  and  face.  He  staggered  back  sev- 
eral paces  ;  the  glow  of  his  swarthy  cheek  faded  into  a  death- 
like paleness  ;  the  word  which  passion  had  conjured  to  his 
tongue  died  there  in  silence  ;  and  he  stood  with  eyes  dilated 
and  fixed  on  Clarence's  face,  on  which  their  gaze  seemed  to 
force  some  unwilling  certainty. 

But  Linden  did  not  wait  for  him  to  recover  his  self-posses- 
sion ;  he  hurried  after  Lady  Westborough,  who,  with  her 
daughter,  was  hastening  home. 

"  Pardon  me.  Lady  Westborough,"  he  said  (as  he  approached), 
with  a  tone  and  air  of  deep  respect,  "pardon  me — but  will 


THE   DISOWNED.  329 

you  suffer  me  to  hope  that  Lady  Flora  and  yourself  will,  in  a 
moment  of  greater  calmness,  consider  over  all  I  have  said  ! — 
and — that  she — that  you,  Lady  Flora  (added  he,  changing  the 
object  of  his  address),  will  vouchsafe  one  line  of  unprejudiced, 
unbiased  reply,  to  a  love  which,  however  misrepresented  and 
calumniated,  has  in  it,  I  dare  to  say,  nothing  that  can  disgrace 
her  to  whom,  with  an  enduring  constancy,  and  undimmed, 
though  unhoping,  ardor,  it  has  been  inviolably  dedicated." 

Lady  Flora,  though  she  spoke  not,  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and 
in  that  glance  was  a  magic  which  made  his  heart  burn  with  a 
sudden  and  flashing  joy  that  atoned  for  the  darkness  of  years. 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  touched,  in  si)ile 
of  herself,  with  the  sincerity  and  respect  of  Clarence's  bearing, 
"  that  Lady  Flora  will  reply  to  any  letter  of  explanation  or  pro- 
posal ;  for  myself,  I  will  not  even  see  her  answer.  Where  shall 
it  be  sent  to  you?" 

"  I  have  taken  my  lodgings  at  the  inn,  by  your  park  gates. 
I  shall  remain  there  till — till —  " 

Clarence  paused,  for  his  heart  was  full ;  and,  leaving  the 
sentence  to  be  concluded  as  his  listeners  pleased,  he  drew  him- 
self aside  from  their  path,  and  suffered  them  to  proceed. 

As  he  was  feeding  his  eyes  with  the  last  glimpse  of  their 
forms,  ere  a  turn  in  the  ground  snatched  them  from  his  view, 
he  heard  a  rapid  step  behind,  and  Lord  Ulswater,  approaching, 
laid  his  hand  upon  Linden's  shoulder,  and  said  calmly  : 

*'  Are  you  furnished  with  proof  to  support  the  word  you  ut- 
tered ? " 

"  I  am  !  "  replied  Clarence  haughtily. 

"And  will  you  favor  me  with  it?" 

"  At  your  leisure,  my  lord,"  rejoined  Clarence. 

"  Enough  ! — name  your  time,  and  I  will  attend  you." 

"On  Tuesday  :  I  require  till  then  to  produce  my  witnesses." 

"So  be  it — yet  stay:  on  Tuesday  I  have  military  business  at 

W ,  some  miles  hence — the  next  day  let  it  be — the  place  of 

meeting  where  you  please." 

" Here,  then,  my  lord,"  answered  Clarence;  "you  have  in- 
sulted me  grossly  before  Lady  Westborough  and  your  affianced 
bride,  and  before  them  my  vindication  and  answer  should  be 
given." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Lord  Ulswater;  "be  it  here,  at  the 
hour  of  twelve."     Clarence  bowed  his  assent,  and  withdrew. 

Lord  Ulswater  remained  on  the  spot,  with  downcast  eyes,  and 
a  brow  on  which  thought  had  succeeded  passion. 

"If  true,"  said  he  aloud,  though  unconsciously, "if  this  be 


33©  THE   DISOWNED. 

true,  why  then  I  owe  him  reparation,  and  he  shall  have  it  at 
my  hands,  I  owe  it  to  him  on  my  account,  and  that  of  one 
now  no  more.  Till  we  meet,  I  will  not  again  see  Lady  Flora  j 
after  that  meeting  perhaps  I  may  resign  her  forever." 

And  with  these  words  the  young  nobleman,  who,  in  despite  of 
many  evil  and  overbearing  qualities,  had,  as  we  have  said,  his 
redeeming  virtues,  in  which  a  capricious  and  unsteady  gene- 
rosity was  one,  walked  slowly  to  the  house — wrote  a  brief  note 
to  Lady  Westborough,  the  purport  of  which  the  next  chapter 
will  disclose  ;  and  then,  summoning  his  horse,  flung  himself 
on  its  back,  and  rode  hastily  away. 


CHAPTER  LXVIIL 

r  "  We  will  examine  if  those  accidents, 

Which  common  fame  call  injuries,  happen  to  him 
Deservedly  or  no." —  The  New  Inn. 

FROM  LORD  ULSWATER  TO  LADY  WESTBOROUGH. 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest  Lady  Westborough,  for  my  violence — 
you  know  and  will  allow  for  the  infirmities  of  my  temper.  I 
have  to  make  you  and  Lady  Flora  one  request,  which  I  trust 
you  will  not  refuse  me. 

"  Do  not  see,  or  receive  any  communication  from,  Mr.  Lin- 
den till  Wednesday;  and  on  that  day,  at  the  hour  of  twelve, 
suffer  me  to  meet  him  at  your  house.  I  will  then  either  prove 
him  to  be  the  basest  of  impostors,  or,  if  I  fail  in  this,  and  Lady 
Flora  honors  my  rival  with  one  sentiment  of  preference,  I  will, 
without  a  murmur,  submit  to  her  decree  and  my  rejection. 
Dare  I  trust  that  this  petition  will  be  accorded  to  one  who  is, 
with  great  regard  and  esteem.  Etc.,  etc.,  etc." 

"  This  is  fortunate,"  said  Lady  Westborough  gently  to  her 
daughter,  who,  leaning  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom,  suffered 
hopes,  the  sweeter  for  their  long  sleep,  to  divide,  if  not  wholly 
to  possess,  her  heart.  "We  shall  have  now  time  well  and  care- 
fully to  reflect  over  what  will  be  best  for  your  future  happiness. 
We  owe  this  delay  to  one  to  whom  you  have  been  affianced. 
Let  us,  therefore,  now  merely  write  to  Mr,  Linden,  to  inform 
him  of  Lord  Ulswater's  request ;  and  to  say  that  if  he  will  meet 
his  lordship  at  the  time  appointed,  we,  that  is  /,  shall  be  happy 
to  see  him." 


THE   DISOWNED,  33 1 

Lady  Flora  sighed,  but  she  saw  the  reasonableness  of  her 
mother's  proposal,  and,  pressing  Lady  Westborough's  hand, 
murmured  her  assent. 

"At  all  events,"  thought  Lady  Westborough,  as  she  wrote  to 
Clarence,  "the  affair  can  but  terminate  to  advantage.  If  Lord 
Ulswater  proves  Mr.  Linden's  unvvorthiness,  the  suit  of  the 
latter  is,  of  course,  at  rest  for  ever;  if  not,  and  Mr.  Linden  be 
indeed  all  that  he  asserts,  my  daughter's  choice  cannot  be  an 
election  of  reproach  ;  Lord  Ulswater  promises  peaceably  to 
withdraw  his  pretensions  ;  and  though  Mr.  Linden  may  not 
possess  his  rank  or  fortune,  he  is  certainly  one  with  whom,  if  of 
ancient  blood,  any  family  would  be  proud  of  an  alliance." 

Blending  with  these  reflections  a  considerable  share  of  curi- 
osity and  interest  in  a  secret  which  partook  so  strongly  of  ro- 
mance, Lady  Westborough  dispatched  her  note  to  Clarence. 
The  answer  returned  was  brief,  respectful,  and  not  only  acqui- 
escent in,  but  grateful  for,  the  proposal. 

With  this  arrangement  both  Lady  Westborough  and  Lady 
Flora  were  compelled,  though  with  very  different  feelings,  to  be 
satisfied  ;  and  an  agreement  was  established  between  them,  to 
the  effect  that  if  Linden's  name  passed  unblemished  through 
the  appointed  ordeal.  Lady  Flora  was  to  be  left  to,  and  favored 
in,  her  own  election  ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  if  Lord  Ulswater 
succeeded  in  the  proof  he  had  spoken  of,  his  former  footing  in 
the  family  was  to  be  fully  re-established,  and  our  unfortunate 
adventurer  forever  discarded. 

To  this  Lady  Flora  readily  consented  ;  for  with  a  sanguine 
and  certain  trust  in  her  lover's  truth  and  honor,  which  was 
tenfold  more  strong  for  her  late  suspicions,  she  would  not  allow 
herself  a  doubt  as  to  the  result ;  and  with  an  impatience, 
mingled  with  a  rapturous  exhilaration  of  spirit,  which  brought 
back  to  her  the  freshness  and  radiancy  of  her  youngest  years, 
she  counted  the  hours  and  moments  to  the  destined  day. 

While  such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  Westborough  Park, 
Clarence  was  again  on  horseback,  and  on  another  excursion. 
By  the  noon  of  the  day  following  that  which  had  seen  his 
eventful  meeting  with  Lady  Flora,  he  found  himself  approach- 
ing the  extreme  boundaries  of  the  county  in  which   Mordaunt 

Court,  and  the  memorable  town  of  W ,  were  situated.    The 

characteristics  of  the  country  were  now  materially  changed 
from  those  which  gave  to  the  vicinity  of  Algernon's  domains 
its  wild  and  uncultivated  aspect. 

As  Clarence  slowly  descended  a  hill  of  considerable  steep- 
ness and  length,  a  prospect  of  singular  and  luxurious  beauty 


332  THE   DISOWNED. 

opened  to  his  view.  The  noblest  of  England's  rivers  was  seen 
through  "turfs  and  shades  and  flowers,"  pursuing  "its  silver- 
winding  way."  On  the  opposite  banks  lay,  embosomed  in  the 
golden  glades  of  autumn,  the  busy  and  populous  town  that 
from  the  height  seemed  still  and  lifeless  as  an  enchanted  city, 
over  which  the  mid-day  sun  hung  like  a  guardian  spirit.  Be- 
hind, in  sweeping  diversity,  stretched  wood  and  dale,  and  fields 
despoiled  of  their  rich  harvest,  yet  still  presenting  a  yellow 
surface  to  the  eye  ;  and  ever  and  anon  some  bright  patch  of 
green,  demanding  the  gaze  as  if  by  a  lingering  spell  from  the 
past  spring  ;  while,  here  and  there,  spire  and  hamlet  studded 
the  landscape,  or  some  lowly  cot  lay,  backed  by  the  rising 
ground  or  the  silent  woods,  white  and  solitary,  and  sending  up 
its  faint  tribute  of  smoke  in  spires  to  the  altars  of  Heaven. 
The  river  was  more  pregnant  of  life  than  its  banks  :  barge  and 
boat  were  gliding  gayly  down  the  wave,  and  the  glad  oar  of  the 
frequent  and  slender  vessels  consecrated  to  pleasure  was  seen 
dimpling  the  water,  made  by  distance  smoother  than  glass. 

On  the  right  side  of  Clarence's  road,  as  he  descended  the 
hill,  lay  wide  plantations  of  fir  and  oak,  divided  from  the  road 
by  a  park  paling,  the  uneven  sides  of  which  were  covered  with 
brown  moss,  and  which,  at  rare  openings  in  the  young  wood, 
gave  glimpses  of  a  park,  seemingly  extending  over  great  space, 
the  theatre  of  many  a  stately  copse  and  oaken  grove,  which 
might  have  served  the  Druids  with  fane  and  temple  meet  for 
the  savage  sublimity  of  their  worship. 

Upon  these  unfrequent  views,  Clarence  checked  his  horse, 
and  gazed,  with  emotions  sweet  yet  bitter,  over  the  pales,  along 
the  green  expanse  which  they  contained.  And  once,  when 
through  the  trees  he  caught  a  slight  glimpse  of  the  white  walls 
of  the  mansion  they  adorned,  all  the  years  of  his  childhood 
seemed  to  rise  on  his  heart,  thrilling  to  its  farthest  depths 
with  a  mighty  and  sorrowful,  yet  sweet,  melody,  and 

"  Singing  of  boyhood  back — the  voices  of  his  home." 

Home  !  yes,  amidst  those  groves  had  the  April  of  his  life 
lavished  its  mingled  smiles  and  tears  !  There  was  the  spot 
hallowed  by  his  earliest  joys  !  and  the  scene  of  sorrows  still 
more  sacred  than  joys  ! — and  now,  after  many  years,  the  exiled 
boy  came  back,  a  prosperous  and  thoughtful  man,  to  take  but 
one  brief  glance  of  that  home  which  to  him  had  been  less  hos- 
pitable than  a  stranger's  dwelling,  and  to  find  a  witness,  among 
those  who  remembered  him,  of  his  very  birtli  and  identity  ! 
He  wound   the  ascent  at  last,  and  entering  a  small  town  at 


THE   DISOWNED.  333 

the  foot  of  the  hill,  which  was  exactly  facing  the  larger  one  on 
the  opposite  shore  of  the  river,  put  up  his  horse  at  one  of  the 
inns  :  and  then,  with  a  beating  heart,  remounted  the  hill,  and, 
entering  the  park  by  one  of  its  lodges,  found  himself  once 
more  in  the  haunts  of  his  childhood. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

"  Oh,  the  steward,  the  steward — I  might  have  guessed  as  much." 

Tales  of  the  Crusaders. 

The  evening  was  already  beginning  to  close,  and  Clarence 
was  yet  wandering  in  the  park,  and  retracing,  with  his  heart's 
eye,  each  knoll,  and  tree,  and  tuft,  once  so  familiar  to  his 
wanderings. 

At  the  time  we  shall  again  bring  him  personally  before  the 
reader,  he  was  leaning  against  an  iron  fence  that,  running 
along  the  left  wing  of  the  house,  separated  the  pleasure-grounds 
from  the  park,  and  gazing,  with  folded  arms  and  wistful  eyes, 
upon  the  scene  on  which  the  dusk  of  twilight  was  gradually 
gathering. 

The  house  was  built  originally  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  :  it 
had  since  received  alteration  and  additions,  and  now  presented 
to  the  eye  a  vast  pile  of  Grecian,  or  rather  Italian,  architec- 
ture, heterogeneously  blended  with  the  massive  window,  the 
stiff  coping,  and  the  heavy  roof  which  the  age  immediately 
following  the  Revolution  introduced.  The  extent  of  the  build- 
ing, and  the  grandeur  of  the  circling  demesnes,  were  sufficient 
to  render  the  mansion  imposing  in  effect ;  while,  perhaps,  the 
style  of  the  architecture  was  calculated  to  conjoin  a  stately 
comfort  with  magnificence,  and  to  atone  in  solidity  for  any  de- 
ficiency in  grace.  At  a  little  distance  from  the  house,  and 
placed  on  a  much  more  commanding  site,  were  some  ancient 
and  ivy-grown  ruins,  now  scanty  indeed,  and  fast  mouldering 
into  decay,  but  sufficient  to  show  the  antiquarian  the  remains 
of  what  once  had  been  a  hold  of  no  ordinary  size  and  power. 
These  were  the  wrecks  of  the  old  mansion,  which  was  recorded 
by  tradition  to  have  been  reduced  to  this  state  by  accidental 
fire,  during  the  banishment  of  its  loyal  owner  in  the  time  of  the 
Protectorate.     Upon  his  return  the  present  house  was  erected. 

As  Clarence  was  thus  stationed,  he  perceived  an  elderly  man 
approach  towards  him.     "This  is  fortunate,"  said  he  to  him- 


334  THE    DISOWNED. 

self — "  the  very  person  I  have  been  watching  for.  Well  years 
have  passed  lightly  over  old  Wardour  :  still  the  same  precise 
garb — the  same  sturdy  and  slow  step — the  same  upright  form." 

The  person  thus  designated  now  drew  near  enough  for  par- 
lance ;  and  in  a  tone  a  little  authoritative,  though  very  respect- 
ful, inquired  if  Clarence  had  any  business  to  transact  with  him. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Clarence,  slouching  his  hat  over  his 
face,  "  for  lingering  so  near  the  house  at  this  hour  :  but  1  have 
seen  it  many  years  ago,  and  indeed,  been  a  guest  within  its 
walls  :  and  it  -is  rather  my  interest  for  an  old  friend,  than  my 
curiosity  to  examine  a  new  one,  which  you  are  to  blame  for  my 
trespass." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Wardour,  a  short  and  rather  stout 
man,  of  about  sixty-four,  attired  in  a  chocolate  coat,  gray 
breeches,  and  silk  stockings  of  the  same  dye,  which,  by  the 
waning  light,  took  a  sombrer  and  sadder  hue — "  Oh,  sir — pray 
make  no  apology.  I  am  only  sorry  the  hour  is  so  late,  that  I 
cannot  offer  to  show  you  the  interior  of  the  house  :  perhaps,  if 
you  are  staying  in  the  neighborhood,  you  would  like  to  see  it 
to-morrow.  You  were  here,  I  take  it,  sir,  in  my  old  lord's 
time? " 

"  I  was ! — upon  a  visit  to  his  second  son — we  had  been  boys 
together." 

"  What !  Master  Clinton  ?"  cried  the  old  man,  with  extreme 
animation  ;  and  then  suddenly  changing  his  voice,  added,  in  a 
subdued  and  saddened  tone,  "  Ah  !  poor  young  gentleman,  I 
wonder  where  he  is  now?  " 

"Why — is  he  not  in  this  country  ?  "  asked  Clarence. 

"Yes — no — that  is,  I  can't  exactly  say  where  he  is — I  wish  I 
coul-d — poor  Master  Clinton — I  loved  him  as  my  own  son." 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  Clarence.  "Is  there  anything  in 
the  fate  of  Clinton  L'Estrange  that  calls  forth  your  pity  !  If 
so,  you  would  gratify  a  much  better  feeling  than  curiosity  if 
you  would  inform  me  of  it.  The  fact  is,  that  I  came  here  to 
seek  him  ;  for  I  have  been  absent  from  the  country  many  years, 
and  on  my  return,  my  first  inquiry  was  for  my  old  friend  and 
schoolfellov/.  None  knew  anything  of  him  in  London,  and  I 
imagined,  therefore,  that  he  might  have  settled  down  into  a 
country  gentleman.  I  was  fully  prepared  to  find  him  marshall- 
ing the  fox-hounds  or  beating  the  preserves  ;  and  you  may  con- 
sequently imagine  my  mortification  on  learning,  at  my  inn, 
that  he  had  not  been  residing  here  for  many  years ;  further  I 
know  not  ! " 

"Ay — ay — sir,"  said  the   old    steward,    who    had   listened 


THE   DISOWNED.  335 

very  attentively  to  Clarence's  detail,  "  had  you  pressed  one  of 
the  village  gossips  a  little  closer,  you  would  doubtless  have 
learned  more  !  But  'tis  a  story  I  don't  much  love  telling,  al- 
though formerly  I  could  have  talked  of  Master  Clinton  by  the 
hour  together,  to  any  one  who  would  have  had  the  patience  to 
listen  to  me." 

"  You  have  really  created  in  me  a  very  painful  desire  to  learn 
more,"  said  Clarence  ;  "  and  if  I  am  not  intruding  on  any  fam- 
ily secrets,  you  would  oblige  me  greatly  by  whatever  informa- 
tion you  may  think  proper  to  afford  to  an  early  and  attached 
friend  of  the  person  in  question." 

"  Well,  sir,  well,"  replied  Mr.  Wardour,  who,  without  imputa- 
tion on  his  discretion,  loved  talking  as  well  as  any  other  old 
'gentleman  of  sixty-four,  "  if  you  will  condescend  to  step  up  to 
my  house,  I  shall  feel  happy  and  proud  to  converse  with  a  friend 
of  my  dear  young  master's  ;  and  you  are  heartily  welcome  to  the 
information  I  can  give  you." 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely,"  said  Clarence  ;  "but  suffer  me  to 
propose,  as  an  amendment  to  your  offer,  that  you  accompany  me 
for  an  hour  or  two  to  my  inn." 

"Nay,  sir,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  piqued  tone,  "  I 
trust  you  will  not  disdain  to  honor  me  with  your  company. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  can  afford  to  be  hospitable  now  and  then." 

Clarence,  who  seemed  to  have  his  own  reasons  for  the  amend- 
ment he  had  proposed,  still  struggled  against  this  offer,  but 
was  at  last,  from  fear  of  ofifending  the  honest  steward,  obliged 
to  accede. 

Striking  across  a  path,  which  led  through  a  corner  of  the 
plantation,  to  a  space  of  ground  containing  a  small  garden, 
quaintly  trimmed  in  the  Dutch  taste,  and  a  brick  house  of  mod- 
erate dimensions,  half  overgrown  with  ivy  and  jessamine,  Clar- 
ence and  his  invitor  paused  at  the  door  of  the  said  mansion,  and 
the  latter  welcomed  his  guest  to  his  abode. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Clarence,  as  a  damsel  in  waiting  opened 
the  door,  "but  a  very  severe  attack  of  rheumatism  obliges  me 
to  keep  on  my  hat ;  you  will,  I  hope,  indulge  me  in  my  rude- 
ness." 

"  To  be  sure — to  be  sure,  sir.  I  myself  suffer  terribly  from 
rheumatism  in  the  winter — though  you  look  young,  sir,  very 
young,  to  have  an  old  man's  complaint.  Ah,  the  people  of  my 
day  were  more  careful  of  themselves,  and  that  is  the  reason  we 
are  such  stout  fellows  in  our  age." 

And  the  worthy  steward  looked  complacently  down  at  legs 
which  very  substantially  filled  their  comely  investments. 


336  THE   DISOWNED. 

"True,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  laying  his  hand  upon  that  of  the' 
steward,  who  was  ju.^t  about  to  open  the  door  of  an  apartment ; 
"  but  suffer  me  at  least  to  request  you  not  to  introduce  me  to 
any  of  the  ladies  of  your  family.  I  could  not,  were  my  very 
life  at  stake,  think  of  affronting  them  by  not  doffing-  my  hat. 
I  have  the  keenest  sense  of  what  is  due  to  the  sex,  and  I  must 
seriously  entreat  you,  for  the  sake  of  my  health  during  the  whole 
of  the  coming  winter,  to  suffer  our  conversation  not  to  take 
place  in  their  presence." 

"Sir — I  honor  your  politeness,"  said  the  prim  little  steward  : 
"  I,  myself,  like  every  true  Briton,  reverence  the  ladies  ;  we  will, 
therefore,  retire  to  my  study.  Mary,  girl,"  turning  to  the 
attendant,  "see  that  we  have  a  nice  chop  for  supper,  in  half  an 
hour:  and  tell  your  mistress  that  I  have  a  gentleman  of  quality 
with  me  upon  particular  business,  and  must  not  be  disturbed." 

With  these  injunctions,  the  steward  led  the  way  to  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  house,  and,  having  ushered  his  guest  into  a 
small  parlor,  adorned  with  sundry  law-books,  a  great  map  of 
the  estate,  a  print  of  the  late  owner  of  it,  a  rusty  gun  slung 
over  the  fireplace,  two  stuffed  pheasants,  and  a  little  mahogany 
buffet — having,  we  say,  led  Clarence  to  this  sanctuary  of  retir- 
ing stewardship,  he  placed  a  seat  for  him  and  said  : 

"  Between  you  and  me,  sir,  be  it  respectfully  said,  I  am  not 
sorry  that  our  little  confabulation  should  pass  alone.  Ladies 
are  very  delightful — very  delightful,  certainly ;  but  they  won't 
let  one  tell  a  story  one's  own  way — they  are  fidgetty,  you 
know,  sir — fidgetty — nothing  more  ;  tis  a  trifle,  but  it  is  unpleas- 
ant ;  besides,  my  wife  was  Master  Clinton's  foster-mother,  and 
she  can't  hear  a  word  about  him,  without  running  on  into  a 
long  rigmarole  of  what  he  did  as  a  baby,  and  so  forth.  I  like 
people  to  be  chatty,  sir,  but  not  garrulous  ;  I  can't  bear  garru- 
lity— at  least  in  a  female.  But,  suppose,  sir,  we  defer  our  story 
till  after  supper?  A  glass  of  wine  or  warm  punch  makes  talk 
glide  more  easily  ;  besides,  sir,  I  want  something  to  comfort  me 
when  I  talk  about  Master  Clinton.  Poor  gentleman,  he  was  so 
comely,  so  handsome  !  " 

"  Did  you  think  so  ? "  said  Clarence,  turning  towards  the 
fire. 

"Think  so?"  ejaculated  the  steward,  almost  angrily;  and 
forthwith  he  launched  out  into  an  encomium  on  the  perfections, 
personal,  moral,  and  mental,  of  Master  Clinton,  which  lasted 
till  the  gentle  Mary  entered  to  lay  the  cloth.  This  reminded 
the  old  steward  of  the  glass  of  wine  which  was  so  efficacious  in 
making  talk  glide  easily ;  and,  going  to  the  buffet  before  men- 


THE  t)ISOWNEfi.  537 

tloned,  he  drew  forth  two  bottles,  both  of  port.  Having  care- 
fully and  warily  decanted  both,  he  changed  the  subject  of  his 
praise ;  and,  assuring  Clarence  that  the  wine  he  was  about  to 
taste  was,  at  least,  as  old  as  Master  Clinton,  having  been  pur- 
chased in  joyous  celebration  of  the  young  gentleman's  birth- 
day, he  whiled  away  the  minutes  with  a  glowing  eulogy  on  its 
generous  qualities,  till  Mary  entered  with  the  supper. 

Clarence,  with  an  appetite  sharpened,  despite  his  romance, 
by  a  long  fast,  did  ample  justice  to  the  fare  ;  and  the  old  stew- 
ard, warming  into  familiarity  with  the  virtues  of  the  far-famed 
port,  chatted  and  laughed  in  a  strain  half  simple  and  half 
shrewd. 

The  fire  being  stirred  up  to  a  free  blaze,  the  hearth  swept, 
and  all  the  tokens  of  supper,  save  and  except  the  kingly  bottle 
and  its  subject  glasses,  being  removed,  the  steward  and  his 
guest  drew  closer  to  each  other,  and  the  former  began  his 
story 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

"  Ttie  actors  are  at  hand,  and  by  their  shew, 
You  shall  know  all  that  you  are  like  to  know." 

— Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

"You  know,  probably,  sir,  that  my  late  lord  was  twice 
married  :  by  his  first  wife  he  had  three  children,  only  one  of 
whom,  the  youngest,  though  now  the  present  earl,  survived  the 
first  period  of  infancy.  When  Master  Francis,  as  we  always 
called  him,  in  spite  of  his  accession  to  the  title  of  viscount,  was 
about  six  years  old,  my  lady  died,  and  a  year  afterwards  my 
lord  married  again.  His  second  wife  was  uncommonly  hand- 
some :  she  was  a  Miss  Talbot  (a  Catholic),  daughter  of  Colonel 
Talbot,  and  niece  to  the  celebrated  beau.  Squire  Talbot,  of 
Scarsdale  Park.  Poor  lady  !  they  say  that  she  married  my  lord 
though  a  momentary  pique  against  a  former  lover.  However 
that  may  be,  she  was  a  fine,  high-spirited  creature — very  violent 
in  temper,  to  be  sure,  but  generous  and  kind  when  her  passion 
was  over  ;  and,  however  haughty  to  her  equals,  charitable  and 
compassionate  to  the  poor. 

"She  had  but  one  son,  Master  Clinton.  Never,  sir,  shall  I 
forget  the  rejoicings  that  were  made  at  his  birth  ;  for  my  lord 
doted  on  his  second  wife,  and  had  disliked  his  first,  whom  he 
had  married  for  her  fortune  ;  and  it  was  therefore  natural  that 
he  should  prefer  the  child  of  the  present  wife  to  Master  Francis. 


^;iii  tHE  DISOWNED. 

Ah,  it  is  sad  to  think  how  love  can  change  !  Well,  sir,  my  lord 
seemed  literally  to  be  wrapt  up  in  the  infant:  he  nursed  it,  and 
fondled  it,  and  hung  over  it,  as  if  he  had  been  its  mother  ratiier 
than  its  father.  My  lady  desired  that  it  might  be  cliristencd 
by  one  of  her  family  names  ;  and  my  lord  consenting,  it  was 
called  Clinton. — (The  wine  is  witli  you,  sir  !  Do  observe  that 
it  has  not  changed  color  in  the  least,  notwithstanding  its  age  !) 

"  My  lord  was  fond  of  a  quiet,  retired  life  ;  indeed,  he  was  a 
great  scholar,  and  spent  the  chief  part  of  his  time  among  his 
books.  Dr.  Latinas,  the  young  gentleman's  tutor,  said  his  lord- 
ship made  Greek  verses  better  than  Dr.  Latinas  could  make 
English  ones,  so  you  may  judge  of  his  learning.  But  my  lady 
went  constantly  to  town,  and  was  among  the  gayest  of  the  gay  ; 
nor  did  she  often  come  down  here  without  bringing  a  whole 
troop  of  guests.  Lord  help  us,  what  goings  on  there  used  to  be 
at  the  great  house  ! — such  dancing  and  music,  and  dining,  and 
supping,  and  shooting-parties,ifishing-parties,  gypsy-parties;  you 
would  have  thought  all  England  was  merry-making  there. 

"  But  my  lord,  though  he  indulged  my  lady  in  all  her  whims 
and  extravagance,  seldom  took  much  share  in  them  himself. 
He  was  constantly  occupied  with  his  library  and  children,  nor 
did  he  ever  suffer  either  Master  Francis  or  Master  Clinton  to 
mix  with  the  guests.  He  kept  them  very  close  at  their  studies, 
and  when  the  latter  was  six  years  old,  I  do  assure  you,  sir,  he 
could  say  his  Propria  qua  marihus  better  than  I  can. — (You 
don't  drink,  sir.)  When  Master  Francis  was  sixteen,  and  Mas- 
ter Clinton  eight,  the  former  was  sent  abroad  on  his  travels  with 
a  German  tutor,  and  did  not  return  to  England  for  many  years 
afterwards  ;  meanwhile  Master  Clinton  grew  up  to  the  age  of 
fourteen,  increasing  in  comeliness  and  goodness.  He  was  very 
fond  of  his  studies,  much  more  so  than  Master  Francis  had 
been,  and  was  astonishingly  forward  for  his  years.  So  my  lord 
loved  him  better  and  better,  and  would  scarcely  ever  suffer  him 
to  be  out  of  his  sight. 

"When  Master  Clinton  was  about  the  age  I  mentioned,  viz., 
fourteen,  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Sir  Clinton  Manners  be- 
came a  constant  visitor  at  the  house.  Report  said  that  he  was 
always  about  my  lady  in  London,  at  Ranelagh,  and  the  ball- 
rooms and  routs,  and  all  the  fine  places — and  certainly  he  was 
scarcely  ever  from  her  side  in  the  pleasure  parties  at  the  park. 
But  my  lady  said  that  he  was  a  cousin  of  her's,  and  an  old 
playmate  in  childhood,  and  so  he  was — and,  unhappily  for  her, 
something  more  too.  My  lord,  liovvever,  shut  up  in  his  library, 
did  not  pay  any  attention  to  my  lady's  intimacy  with  Sir  Clinton  ; 


THE   DISOWNED.  339 

on  the  contrary,  as  he  was  a  cousin  and  friend  of  her's,  his 
lordship  seemed  always  happy  to  see  him,  and  was  the  only 
person  in  the  neighborhood  who  had  no  suspicion  of  what  was 
going  on. 

"  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  melancholy  story,  and  I  can  scarcely  persuade 
myself  to  tell  it.  (It  is  really  delicious  wine  this — six-and- 
twenty  years  old  last  birthday — to  say  nothing  of  its  age  before 
1  bought  it — Ah  !) — Well,  sir,  the  blow  came  at  last  like  a 
thunder-clap — my  lady,  finding  disguise  was  in  vain,  went  off 
witii  Sir  Clinton.  Letters  were  discovered  which  sliowed  that 
they  had  corresponded  for  years — that  he  was  her  lover  before 
marriage — that  she,  in  a  momentary  passion  with  him,  had 
accepted  my  lord's  offer — that  she  had  always  repented  her 
precipitation — and  that  she  had  called  her  son  after  his  name — 
all  this,  and  much  more,  sir,  did  my  lord  learn,  as  it  were,  at  a 
single  blow. 

"  He  obtained  a  divorce,  and  Sir  Clinton  and  my  lady  went 
abroad.  But  from  that  time  my  lord  was  never  the  same  man. 
Always  proud  and  gloomy,  he  now  became  intolerably  violent 
and  morose.  He  shut  himself  up,  saw  no  company  of  any  de- 
scription, rarely  left  the  house,  and  never  the  park — and,  from 
being  one  of  the  gayest  places  in  the  country,  sir,  the  mansion 
became  as  dreary  and  deserted  as  if  it  had  been  haunted.  (It 
is  for  you  to  begin  the  second  bottle,  sir.) 

"But  the  most  extraordinary  change  in  my  lord  was  in  his 
conduct  to  Master  Clinton — from  doating  upon  him,  to  a  degree 
that  would  have  spoilt  any  temper  less  sweet  than  my  poor 
young  master's,  he  took  the  most  violent  aversion  to  him. 
From  the  circumstance  of  his  name,  and  the  long  intimacy  ex- 
isting between  my  lady  and  her  lover,  his  lordship  would  not 
believe  that  Master  Clinton  was  his  own  child  :  and  indeed  I 
must  confess  there  seemed  good  ground  for  his  suspicions. 
Besides  this.  Master  Clinton  took  very  much  after  his  mother. 
He  had  her  eyes,  hair,  and  beautiful  features,  so  that  my  lord 
could  never  see  him  without  being  reminded  of  his  disgrace  : 
therefore  whenever  the  poor  young  gentleman  came  into  his 
presence,  he  would  drive  him  out,  with  oaths  and  threats  which 
rung  through  the  whole  house.  He  could  not  even  bear  that 
he  should  have  any  attendance  or  respect  from  the  servants, 
for  he  considered  him  quite  as  an  alien  like,  and  worse  than  a 
stranger  ;  and  his  lordship's  only  delight  seemed  to  consist  in 
putting  upon  him  every  possible  indignity  and  affront.  But 
Master  Clinton  was  a  high,  spirited  young  gentleman,  and  after 
having  in  vain  endeavored  to  soothe  my  lord  by  compliance 


340  THE    DISOWNED. 

and  respect,  he  at  last  utterly  avoided  his  lordship's  pres« 
ence. 

He  gave  up  his  studies  in  a  great  measure,  and  wandered 
about  the  park  and  woods  all  day,  and  sometimes  even  half  the 
night;  hismother's conduct, and  his  father's unkindness seemed 
to  prey  upon  his  health  and  mind,  and,  at  last,  he  grew  ahnost 
as  much  altered  as  my  lord.  From  being  one  of  the  merriest 
boys  possible,  full  of  life  and  spirits,  he  became  thoughtful  and 
downcast,  his  step  lost  its  lightness,  and  his  eye  all  the  fire 
which  used  once  quite  to  warm  one's  heart  when  one  looked  at 
it ;  in  short,  sir,  tlie  sins  of  the  mother  were  visited  as  much 
upon  the  child  as  the  husband.  (Not  the  least  tawny,  sir,  you 
see,  though  it  is  so  old  !) 

"  My  lord  at  first  seemed  to  be  glad  that  he  now  never  saw 
his  son  ;  but,  by  degrees,  I  think,  he  missed  the  pleasure  of 
venting  his  spleen  upon  him  ;  and  so  he  ordered  my  young 
master  not  to  stir  out  without  his  leave,  and  confined  him 
closer  than  ever  to  his  studies.  Well,  sir  (if  it  were  not  for 
this  port  I  could  not  get  out  another  sentence  !),  there  used 
then  to  be  sad  scenes  between  them  :  my  lord  was  a  terribly 
passionate  man,  and  said  things  sharper  than  a  two-edged 
sword,  as  the  psalms  express  it  ;  and  though  Master  Clinton 
was  one  of  the  mildest  and  best  tempered  boys  imaginable,  yet 
he  could  not  at  all  times  curb  his  spirit  ;  and,  to  my  mind, 
when  a  man  is  perpetually  declaring  he  is  not  your  father,  one 
may  now  and  then  be  forgiven  in  forgetting  that  you  are  to 
behave  as  his  son. 

"  Things  went  on  in  this  way  sadly  enough  for  about  three 
years  and  a  half,  when  Master  Clinton  was  nearly  eighteen. 
One  evening,  after  my  lord  had  been  unusually  stormy.  Mas- 
ter Clinton's  spirit  warmed,  I  suppose,  and,  from  word  to  word, 
the  dispute  increased,  till  my  lord,  in  a  furious  rage,  ordered 
in  the  servants,  and  told  them  to  horsewhip  his  son.  Imagine 
sir,  what  a  disgrace  to  that  noble  house  !  But  there  wns  not 
one  of  them  who  would  not  rather  have  cut  off  his  right  hand 
than  laid  a  finger  upon  Master  Clinton,  so  greatly  was  he  be- 
loved ;  and,  at  last,  my  lord  summoned  his  own  gentleman,  a 
German,  six  feet  high,  entirely  devoted  to  his  lordship,  and 
commanded  him  upon  pain  of  instant  dismissal,  to  make  use, 
in  his  presence,  of  a  horsewhip  which  he  put  into  his  jiand. 

"  The  German  did  not  dare  refuse,  so  he  approached  Mas- 
ter Clinton.  The  servants  were  still  in  the  room,  and  perhaps 
they  would  have  been  bold  enough  to  rescue  Master  Clinton, 
had  there  been  any  need  of  their  assistance  ;  but  he  was  a  tall 


THE    DISOWNED.  34  I 

youth,  as  bold  as  a  hero,  and,  when  the  German  approached, 
he  caught  him  by  the  throat,  threw  liim  down,  and  very  nearly 
strangled  him  ;  he  then,  while  my  lord  was  speechless  with 
rage,  left  the  room,  and  did  not  return  all  night.  (What  a 
body  it  has,  sir — Ah  !) 

"  The  next  morning  I  was  in  a  little  room  adjoining  my  lord's 
study,  looking  over  some  papers  and  maps.  His  lordship  did 
not  know  of  my  presence,  but  was  sitting  alone  at  breakfast, when 
Master  Clinton  suddenly  entered  the  study  ;  the  door  leading  to 
my  room  was  ajar,  and  I  heard  all  the  conversation  that  ensued. 

"  My  lord  asked  him  very  angrily  how  he  had  dared  absent 
himself  all  night  :  but  Master  Clinton  making  no  reply  to  this 
question,  said,  in  a  very  calm,  loud  voice,  which  I  think  I  hear 
now, — *  My  lord,  after  the  insult  you  have  offered  to  me,  it  is 
perhaps  unnecessary  to  observe  that  nothing  could  induce  me 
to  remain  under  your  roof,  I  come,  therefore,  to  take  my  last 
leave  of  you.' 

"He  paused,  and  my  lord  (probably,  like  me,  being  taken 
by  surprise)  making  no  reply,  he  continued  :  'You  have  often 
told  me,  my  lord,  that  I  am  not  your  son  :  if  this  be  possible, 
so  much  the  more  must  you  rejoice  at  the  idea  of  ridding  your 
presence  of  an  intruder.'  'And  how,  sir,  do  you  expect  to 
live,  except  upon  my  bounty?'  exclaimed  my  lord.  'You  re- 
member,' answered  my  young  master,  'that  a  humble  depend- 
ent of  my  mother's  family,  who  had  been  our  governess  in 
childhood,  left  me,  at  her  death,  the  earnings  of  her  life.  I 
believe  they  amount  to  nearly  a  thousand  pounds — I  look  to 
your  lordship's  honor  either  for  the  principal  or  the  yearly  in- 
terest as  may  please  you  best  :  farther  I  ask  not  from  you,' 
'And  do  you  think,  sir,'  cried  my  lord,  almost  screaming  with 
passion,  '  that  upon  that  beggarly  pittance  you  shall  go  forth 
to  dishonor,  more  than  it  is  yet  dishonored,  the  name  of  my 
ancient  house!  Do  you  think,  sir,  that  that  name  to  which 
you  have  no  pretension,  though  the  law  iniquitously  grants  it 
you,  shall  be  sullied  either  with  trade  or  robbery  ?  for  to  one 
or  the  other  you  must  necessarily  be  driven.'  '  I  foresaw  your 
speech,  my  lord,  and  am  prepared  with  an  answer.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  thrust  myself  into  any  family,  the  head  of  which 
thinks  proper  to  reject  me — far  be  it  from  me  to  honor  my 
humble  fortunes  with  a  name  which  I  am  as  willing  as  yourself 
to  disown  ;  I  purpose,  therefore,  to  adopt  a  new  one  ;  and 
whatever  may  be  my  future  fate,  that  name  will  screen  me  both 
from  your  remembrance  and  the  world's  knowledge.  Are  you 
satisfied  now,  my  lord  ?  " 


342  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  His  lordship  did  not  answer  for  some  minutes  ;  at  last,  he 
said  sneeringly  :  *  Go,  boy,  go  !  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you 
have  decided  so  well.  Leave  word  with  my  steward  where  you 
Avish  your  clothes  to  be  sent  to  you  :  Heaven  forbid  I  should 
rob  you  either  of  your  wardrobe,  or  your  princely  fortune. 
Wardour  will  transmit  to  you  the  latter,  even  to  the  last  penny, 
by  the  same  conveyance  as  that  which  is  honored  by  the  former. 
And  now  good-morning,  sir  ;  yet  stay,  and  mark  my  words — 
never  dare  to  re-enter  my  house,  or  to  expect  an  iota  more  of 
fortune  or  favor  from  me.  And,  hark  you,  sir — if  you  dare 
violate  your  word,  if  you  dare,  during  my  life,  at  least,  assume 
a  name  which  you  were  born  to  sully,  my  curse,  my  deepest, 
heartiest,  eternal  curse  be  upon  your  head  in  tliis  world  and 
the  next !  '  'Fear  not,  my  lord,  my  word  is  pledged,'  said  the 
young  gentleman  ;  and  the  next  moment  I  heard  his  parting 
step  in  the  hall. 

"Sir,  my  heart  was  full  (your  glass  is  empty  !),  and  my  head 
spun  round  as  if  I  were  on  a  precipice  ;  but  1  was  determined 
my  young  master  should  not  go  till  I  had  caught  another 
glimpse  of  his  dear  face,  so  I  gently  left  the  room  1  was  in,  and 
hastening  out  of  the  house  by  a  private  entrance,  met  Master 
Clinton  in  the  park,  not  very  far  from  the  spot  where  I  saw 
you,  sir,  just  now.  To  my  surprise,  there  was  no  sign  of  grief 
or  agitation  upon  his  countenance  ;  I  had  never  seen  him  look 
so  proud,  or  for  years,  so  happy. 

"' Wardour,' said  he,  in  a  gay  tone,  where  he  saw  me, 'I 
was  going  to  your  house  :  my  father  has  at  last  resolved  that 
I  should,  like  my  brother,  commence  my  travels,  and  I  wish  to 
leave  with  you  the  address  of  the  place  to  which  my  clothes 
etc.,  will  be  sent.' 

"  I  could  not  contain  any  longer  when  I  heard  this,  sir  ;  I 
burst  into  tears,  confessed  that  1  had  accidentally  heard  liis 
conversation  with  my  lord,  and  besouglit  him  not  to  depart  so 
hastily,  and  with  so  small  a  fortune  ;  but  he  shook  his  head, 
and  would  not  hear  me.  '  Believe  me,  my  good  Wardour,' 
said  he,  '  that  since  my  unhappy  mother's  flight,  I  have  never 
felt  so  elated  or  so  happy  as  1  do  now :  one  should  go  through 
what  I  have  done,  to  learn  the  rapture  of  independence.'  He 
then  told  me  to  have  his  luggage  sent  to  him,  under  his  initials 
of  C.  L.,  at  the  Golden   Fleece,  the  principal  inn  in  the  town 

of   W ,  which,   you  know,  sir,  is   at   the   other  end  of  the 

county,  on  the  rOad  to  London  ;  and  then,  kindly  shaking  me 
by  the  hand,  he  broke  away  from  me  ;  but  he  turned  back 
before  he  had  got  three  paces,  and  said  (and  then,  for  the  first 


f HE   DISOWNED.  345 

time,  the  pride  of  his  countenance  fell,  and  the  tears  stood  in 
his  eyes), '  Wardour,  do  not  divulge  what  you  have  heard  :  put 
as  good  a  face  upon  my  departure  as  you  can,  and  let  the 
blame,  if  any,  fall  upon  me,  not  upon  your  lord  :  after  all,  he 
is  to  be  pitied,  not  blamed,  and  I  can  never  forget  that  he 
once  loved  me.'  He  did  not  wait  for  my  answer,  perhaps  he 
did  not  like  to  show  me  how  much  he  was  affected,  but  hurried 
down  the  park,  and  I  soon  lost  sight  of  him.  My  lord  that 
very  morning  sent  for  me,  demanded  what  address  his  son  had 
left,  and  gave  me  a  letter,  enclosing,  I  suppose,  a  bill  for  my 
poor  young  master's  fortune,  ordering  it  to  be  sent  with  the 
clothes  immediately. 

"  Sir,  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  aught  of  the  dear  gentle- 
man since  ;  you  must  forgive  me,  I  cannot  help  tears,  sir — 
(the  wine  is  with  you.)" 

"But  the  mother,  the  mother!"  said  Clarence  earnestly, 
"  what  became  of  her  ?  she  died  abroad,  two  years  since,  did 
she  not  ?" 

"  She  did,  sir,"  answered  the  honest  steward,  refilling  his 
glass.  "  They  say  that  she  lived  very  unhappily  with  Sir. 
Clinton,  who  did  not  marry  her  ;  till  all  of  a  sudden  she  disap- 
peared, none  knew  whither." 

Clarence  redoubled  his  attention, 

"  At  last,"  resumed  the  steward,  "  two  years  ago  a  letter 
came  from  her  to  my  lord  ;  she  was  a  nun  in  some  convent 
(in  Italy,  I  think),  to  wliich  she  had,  at  the  time  of  her  dis- 
appearance, secretly  retired.  The  letter  was  written  on  her 
death-bed,  and  so  affectingly,  I  suppose,  that  even  my  stern 
lord  was  in  tears  for  several  days  after  he  received  it.  But 
the  principal  passage  in  it  was  relative  to  her  son  :  it  assured 
my  lord  (for  so  with  his  own  lips  he  told  me  just  before  he 
died,  some  months  ago),  that  Master  Clinton  was  in  truth  his 
son,  and  that  it  was  not  till  she  had  been  tempted  many  years 
after  her'marriage,  that  she  had  fallen  ;  she  implored  my  lord 
to  believe  this  'on  the  word  of  one  for  whom  earth  and  earth's 
objects  were  no  more';  those  were  her  words. 

"Six  months  ago,  when  my  lord  lay  on  the  bed  from  which 
he  never  rose,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  said :  '  Wardour,  you 
have  always  been  the  faithful  servant  of  our  house,  and  warmly 
attached  to  my  second  son  ;  tell  my  poor  boy,  if  ever  you  see 
him,  that  I  did  at  last  open  my  eyes  to  my  error,  and  acknowl- 
edge him  as  my  child  ;  tell  him  that  I  have  desired  his  brother 
(who  was  then,  sir,  kneeling  by  my  lord's  side),  as  he  values 
my  blessing^  to  seek  him  out  and  repair  the  wrong  I  have  don§ 


344  *HE  DISOWNED. 

him ;  and  add  that  my  best  comfort  in  death  was  the  hope  of 
his  forgiveness.'  " 

"  Did  he,  did  he  say  that!"  exclaimed  Clarence,  who  had 
been  violently  agitated  during  the  latter  part  of  this  recital, 
and  now  sprung  from  his  seat — "  My  father,  ray  father  !  would 
that  I  had  borne  with  thee  more  ! — mine — mine  was  the  fault — 
from  thee  should  have  come  the  forgiveness  ! " 

The  old  steward  sate  silent  and  aghast.  At  that  instant  his 
wife  entered,  with  a  message  of  chiding  at  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  upon  her  lip,  but  she  started  back,  when  she  saw  Clarence's 
profile,  as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  wall ;  "  Good  Heavens  !  " 
cried  she,  "  is  it,  is  it — yes,  it  is  my  young  master,  my  own 
foster-son  !  " 

nightly  had  Clarence  conjectured,  when  he  had  shunned  her 
presence.  Years  had,  indeed,  wrought  a  change  in  his  figure 
and  face  :  acquaintance,  servant,  friend,  relation, — the  remem- 
brance of  his  features  had  passed  from  all  ;  but  she  who  had 
nursed  him  as  an  infant  on  her  lap,  and  fed  him  from  her 
breast,  she  who  had  joined  the  devotion  of  clanship  to  the  fond- 
ness of  a  mother,  knew  him  at  a  glance. 

"  Yes,"  cried  he,  as  he  threw  himself  into  her  withered  and 
aged  arms,  "  it  is  I,  the  child  you  reared,  come,  after  many 
years,  to  find  too  late,  when  a  father  is  no  more,  that  he  had 
a  right  to  a  father's  home." 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

"  Let  us  go  in, 
And  charge  us  there  upon  interrogatories." — ShAESPEARE. 

"  But  did  not  any  one  recognize  you  in  your  change  Oi^ 
name !  "  said  the  old  foster  mother,  looking  fondly  upon 
Clarence,  as  he  sate  the  next  morning  by  her  side.  "  How 
could  any  one  forget  so  winsome  a  face  who  had  once 
seen  it  ?  " 

"  You  don't  remember,"  said  Clarence  (as  we  will  yet  con- 
tinue to  call  our  hero),  smiling,  "  that  your  husband  had  for- 
gotten it." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  cried  the  piqued  steward,"  but  that  was  because 
you  wore  your  hat  slouched  over  your  eyes  ;  if  you  had  taken 
off  that,  I  should  have  known  you  directly." 

"  However  that  mav  be,"  said  Clarence,  unwilling  to  dwell 


THE  DISOWNED.  34g 

longer  on  an  occurrence  which  he  saw  hurt  the  feelings  of  the 
kind  Mr,  Wardour,  "  it  is  very  easy  to  explain  how  I  preserved 
my  incognito.  You  recollect  that  my  father  never  suffered  me 
to  mix  with  my  mother's  guests  :  so  I  had  no  chance  of  their 
remembering  me,  especially  as,  during  the  last  three  years  and 
a  half,  no  stranger  had  ever  entered  our  walls.  Add  to  this, 
that  I  was  in  the  very  time  of  life  in  which  a  few  years  work 
tlie  greatest  change,  and  on  going  to  London,  I  was  thrown  en- 
tirely among  people  who  could  never  have  seen  me  before. 
Fortunately  for  me,  I  became  acquainted  with  my  mother's 
uncle — circumstances  subsequently  led  me  to  disclose  my  birth 
to  him,  upon  a  promise  that  he  would  never  call  me  by  any 
other  name  than  that  which  I  had  assumed.  He,  who  was  the 
best,  the  kindest,  the  most  generous  of  human  beings,  took  a 
liking  to  me.  He  insisted  not  only  upon  his  relationship  to 
me,  as  my  grand  uncle,  but  upon  the  justice  of  repairing  to 
me  the  wrongs  his  unhappy  niece  had  caused  me.  The  delica- 
cy of  his  kindness — the  ties  of  blood — and  an  accident  which 
had  enabled  me  to  be  of  some  service  to  him,  all  prevented  my 
resisting  the  weight  of  obligation  with  which  he  afterwards 
oppressed  me.  He  procured  me  an  appointment  abroad  : 
I  remained  there  four  years.  When  I  returned,  I  en- 
tered, it  is  true,  into  very  general  society;  but  four  years  had,  as 
you  may  perceive,  altered  me  greatly  ;  and  even  had  there  pre- 
viously existed  any  chance  of  my  being  recognized,  that  altera- 
tion would,  probably,  have  been  sufficient  to  ensure  my  secret," 

"  But  your  brother — my  present  lord — did  you  never  meet  him, 
sir?" 

"  Often,  my  good  mother  ;  but  you  remember  that  I  was  a 
little  more  than  six  years  old  when  he  left  England,  and  when 
he  next  saw  me  I  was  about  two-and  twenty  :  it  would  have 
been  a  miracle,  or  at  least,  would  have  required  the  eyes  of 
love  like  yours  to  have  recalled  me  to  memory  after  such  an 
absence. 

"  Well — to  return  to  my  story — I  succeeded,  partly  as  his 
nearest  relation,  but  principally  from  an  affection  dearer  than 
blood,  to  the  fortune  of  my  grand  uncle,  Mr.  Talbot,  Fate 
prospered  with  me  :  I  rose  in  the  world's  esteem  and  honor, 
and  soon  became  prouder  of  my  borrowed  appellation  than  of 
all  the  titles  of  my  lordly  line.  Circumstances  occurring  within 
the  last  week,  which  it  will  be  needless  to  relate,  but  which  may 
have  the  greatest  influence  over  my  future  life,  made  it  necessary 
to  do  what  I  had  once  resolved  I  would  never  do — prove  my 
identity  and  origin.     Accordingly  I  came  here  to  seek  you," 


34^  THE   DISOWNEd. 

"  But  why  did  not  my  honored  young  master  disclose  himself 
last  night  ? "  asked  the  stevard. 

'  I  might  say,"  answerer  Clarence,  "because  I  anticipatec 
great  pleasure  in  a  surprise  ;  but  I  had  another  reason — it  wai 
this  :  I  had  heard  of  my  poor  father's  death,  and  I  was  pain- 
fully anxious  to  learn  if  at  the  last  he  had  testified  any  relent- 
ing towards  me — and  yet  more  so  to  ascertain  the  manner  oi 
my  unfortunate  mother's  fate.  Both  abroad  and  in  England,  1 
had  sought  tidings  of  her  everywhere,  but  in  vain  :  in  men- 
tioning my  mother's  retiring  into  a  convent,  you  have  explained 
the  reason  why  my  efforts  were  so  fruitless.  With  these 
two  objects  in  view,  I  thought  myself  more  likely  to  learn  the 
whole  truth  as  a  stranger  than  in  my  proper  person  ;  for  in  the 
latter  case  I  deemed  it  probable  that  your  delicacy  and  kindness 
might  tempt  you  to  conceal  whatever  was  calculated  to  wound 
my  feelings,  and  to  exaggerate  anything  that  miglit  tend  to 
flatter  or  to  soothe  them.  Thank  Heaven,  I  now  learn  that 
I  have  aright  to  the  name  my  boyhood  bore,  that  my  birth  is 
not  branded  with  the  foulest  of  private  crimes,  and  that  in 
death  my  father's  heart  yearned  to  his  too  hasty  but  repentant 
son.  Enough  of  this — I  have  now  only  to  request  you,  my 
friend,  to  accompany  me,  before  daybreak,  on  Wednesday 
morning,  to  a  place  several  miles  hence.  Your  presence  there 
will  be  necessary  to  substantiate  the  proof  for  which  I  came 
hither." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,"  cried  the  honest  steward:  "and 
after  Wednesday  you  will,  I  trust,  resume  your  rightful  name  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  Clarence  ;  "  since  I  am  no  longer  'the 
Disowned.'" 

Leaving  Clarence  now  for  a  brief  while  to  renew  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  and  to  offer  the 
tribute  of  his  filial  tears  to  the  ashes  of  a  father  whose  injustice 
had  been  but  "  the  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  had  stung  " — 
we  return  to  some  old  acquaintances  in  the  various  conduct  of 
our  drama. 


tk£  tUSOWKEi).  ^47 

CHAPTER   LXXII, 

"  Upon  his  couch  the  veil'd  Mokanna  lay."  — 7'^^   Veiled  Prophet. 

The  autumn  sun  broke  through  an  apartment  in  a  villa  in 
the  neighborhood  of  London,  furnished  with  the  most  prodigal, 
yet  not  tasteless,  attention  to  luxury  and  show,  within  which, 
beside  a  table  strewed  with  newspapers,  letters,  and  accounts, 
lay  Richard  Crauford,  extended  carelessly  upon  a  sofa  which 
might  almost  have  contented  the  Sybarite,  who  quarrelled  with 
a  rose-leaf.  At  his  elbow  was  a  bottle  half-emptied,  and  a  wine- 
glass just  filled.  An  expression  of  triumph  and  enjoyment  was 
visible  upon  his  handsome,  but  usually  inexpressive,countenance. 

"Well,"  said  he,  taking  up  a  newspaper,  "let  us  read  this 
parag^raph  again.  What  a  beautiful  sensation  it  is  to  see  one's 
name  in  print ! — *  We  understand  that  Richard  Crauford,  Esq. 

M.P.  for ,  is  to  be  raised  to  the  dignity  of  the  peerage. 

There  does  not,  perhaps,  exist  in  the  country  a  gentleman  more 
universally  beloved  and  esteemed.' — (mark  that,  Dicky  Crau- 
ford)— 'The  invariable  generosity  with  which  his  immense 
wealth  has  been  employed — his  high  professional  honor — the 
undeviating  and  consistent  integrity  of  his  political  career ' — 
(Ay,  to  be  sure,  it  is  only  your  honest  fools  who  are  inconsist- 
ent :  no  man  can  deviate  who  has  one  firm  principle,  self-inter- 
est)— 'his  manly  and  energetic  attention  to  the  welfare  of 
religion  '  (he — he — he  !),  'conjoined  to  a  fortune  almost  incal- 
culable, render  this  condescension  of  our  gracious  sovereign 
no  less  judicious  than  deserved  !  We  hear  that  the  title  pro- 
posed for  the  new  peer  is  that  of  Viscount  Innisdale,  which, 
we  believe,  was  formerly  in  the  noble  family  of  which  Mr. 
Crauford  is  a  distant  branch.' 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  Bravo  !  bravo  !  Viscount  Innisdale ! — noble 
family — distant  branch — the  devil  I  am  !  What  an  ignoramus 
my  father  was,  not  to  know  that !  Why,  rest  his  soul,  he  never 
knew  who  his  grandfather  was  ;  but  the  world  shall  not  be 
equally  ignorant  of  that  important  point.  Let  me  see,  who 
shall  be  Viscount  Innisdale's  great-grandfather?  Well,  well, 
whoever  he  is,  here's  long  life  to  his  great-grandson  !  'Incalcu- 
lable fortune  ! '  Ay,  ay,  I  hope,  at  all  events,  it  will  never  be 
calculated.  But  now  for  my  letters.  Bah — this  wine  is  a 
thought  too  acid  for  the  cellars  of  Viscount  Innisdale  !    What, 

another  from  mother  H !     Dark  eyes,  small  mouth — sings 

like  an  angel — eighteen  !     Pish  !  1  am  too  old  for  such  follies 


348  l^ltE  DISOWNED. 

now  ;  'tis  not  pretty  for  Viscount  Innisdale.  Humph  ! — Lis- 
bon— seven  hundred  pounds  five  shillings  and  seven  pence — • 
halfpenny,  is  it,  or  farthing  ?  I  must  note  that  down.  Loan 
for  King  of  Prussia.  Well,  must  negotiate  that  to-morrow. 
Ah,  Hockit,  the  wine-merchant — pipe  of  claret  in  the  docks — 
vintage  of  17 — .  Bravo!  all  goes  smooth  for  Viscount  Innis- 
dale !  Pish  ! — from  my  damnable  wife  !  What  a  pill  for  my 
lordship  !     What  says  she  ? 

"  '  Dawlish,  Devonshire. 
"'You  have  not,  my  dearest  Richard,  answered  my  letters 
for  months.  I  do  not,  however,  presume  to  complain  of  your 
silence  :  I  know  well  that  you  have  a  great  deal  to  occupy  your 
time,  both  in  business  and  pleasure.  But  one  little  line,  dear 
Richard — one  little  line,  surely,  that  is  not  too  much  now  and 
then.  I  am  most  truly  sorry  to  trouble  you  again  about  money  ; 
and  you  must  know  that  I  strive  to  be  as  saving  as  possible  ; ' 
—  [Pish  ! — curse  the  woman — sent  her  twenty  pounds  three 
months  ago  !] — '  but  I  really  am  so  distressed,  and  the  people 
here  are  so  pressing ;  and  at  all  events,  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought  of  your  wife  being  disgraced.  Pray,  forgive  me, 
Richard,  and  believe  how  painful  it  is  in  me  to  say  so  much. 
I  know  you  will  answer  this  !  and,  oh,  do,  do  tell  me  how 
you  are. 

" '  Ever  your  affectionate  wife, 

"'Caroline  Crauford. 

"Was  there  ever  poor  man  so  plagued?  Where's  my  note- 
book ?  Mem. — Send  Car.  to-morrow  ;^20   to  last  her  the  rest 

of  the  year.     Mem. — Send  Mother  H ;^ioo-   Mem. — Pay 

Hockit's  bill  ^(^^30.  Bless  me,  what  shall  I  do  with  Viscount- 
ess Innisdale?  Now,  if  I  were  not  married,  I  would  be  son-in- 
law  to  a  duke.  Mem. — Go  down  to  Dawlish,  and  see  if  she 
■won't  die  soon.  Healthy  situation,  I  fear — devilish  unlucky — ■ 
must  be  changed.     Mem. — Swamps  in  Essex.     Who's  that  ?  "   . 

A  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  Mr.  Crauford  in  his  medita- 
tions. He  started  up,  hurried  the  bottle  and  glass  under  the 
sofa,  where  the  descending  drapery  completely  hid  them  ;  and, 
taking  up  a  newspaper,  said  in  a  gentle  tone,  "Come  in."  A 
small,  thin  man,  bowing  at  every  step,  entered. 

"Ah!  Bradley,  is  it  you,  my  good  fellow?"  said  Crauford — 
*'  glad  to  see  you — a  fine  morning  ;  but  what  brings  you  from 
town  so  early  ?" 

"Why,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Bradley,  very  obsequiously, 
**  something  unpleasant  has — " 


The  disowned,  349 

"  Merciful  Heaven  ! "  cried  Crauford,  blanched  into  the 
whiteness  of  death,  and  starting  up  from  the  sofa  with  a  vio- 
lence which  frightened  the  timid  Mr.  Bradley  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room — "the  counting  house — the  books — all  safe?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,  at  present — but — " 

"But  what,  man?" 

"  Why,  honored  sir,"  resumed  Mr.  Bradley,  bowing  to  the 
ground,  "your  partner,  Mr.  Jessopp,  has  been  very  inquisitive 
about  the  accounts.  He  says,  Mr.  Da  Costa,  the  Spanish  mer- 
chant, has  been  insinuating  very  unpleasant  hints,  and  that  he 
must  have  a  conversation  with  you  at  your  earliest  convenience  ; 
and  when,  sir,  I  ventured  to  remonstrate  about  the  unreason- 
ableness of  attending  to  what  Mr.  Da  Costa  said,  Mr.  Jessopp 
was  quite  abusive,  and  declared  that  there  seemed  some  very 
mysterious  communication  between  you  (begging  your  pardon, 
sir)  and  me,  and  that  he  did  not  know  what  business  I,  who 
had  no  share  in  the  firm,  had  to  interfere," 

**  But,"  said  Crauford,  "you  were  civil  to  him — did  not  reply 
hotly — eh — my  good  Bradley  !  " 

"Lord  forbid,  sir — Lord  forbid,  that  I  should  not  know  my 
place  better,  or  that  I  should  give  an  unbecoming  word  to  the 
partner  of  my  honored  benefactor.  But,  sir,  if  I  dare  venture 
to  say  so,  I  think  Mr.  Jessopp  is  a  little  jealous,  or  so,  of  you  ; 
he  seemed  quite  in  a  passion  at  a  paragraph  in  the  paper,  about 
my  honored  master's  becoming  a  lord," 

"  Right,  honest  Bradley,  right ;  he  is  jealous — we  must  soothe 
him.  Go,  my  good  fellow — go  to  him  with  my  compliments, 
and  say,  that  I  will  be  with  him  by  one.  Never  fear,  this  busi- 
ness will  be  easily  settled." 

And  bowing  himself  out  of  the  room,  Bradley  withdrew. 

Left  alone,  a  dark  cloud  gathered  over  the  brow  of  Mr. 
Crauford. 

"I  am  on  a  precipice,"  thought  he;  "but  if  my  own  brain 
does  not  turn  giddy  with  the  prospect,  all  yet  may  be  safe. 
Cruel  necessity,  that  obliged  me  to  admit  another  into  the 
business,  that  foiled  me  of  Mordaunt,  and  drove  me  upon  this 
fawning  rascal.  So,  so — I  almost  think  there  is  a  Providence, 
now  that  Mordaunt  has  grown  rich  ;  but  then  his  wife  died — 
ay — ay — God  saved  him,  but  the  devil  killed  her*  He — he — 
he !  But,  seriously — seriously,  there  is  danger  in  the  very  air 
I  breathe  !  I  must  away  to  that  envious  Jessopp  instantly ; 
but  first  let  rne  finish  the  bottle." 

*  Voltaire, — "  Dieu  a  puni  ce  fripon,  le  diable  a  noy^  les  autres." — Candid*, 


350  tHE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

"  A  strange  harmonious  inclination 
Of  all  degrees  to  reformation." — Hudibras, 

About   seven   miles  from  W ,  on  the  main  road  from 

there  was    in  17 —  a   solitary  public-house,  which,  by- 


the-by,  is  now  a  magnificent  hotel.  Like  many  of  its  brethren 
in  the  more  courtly  vicinity  of  the  metropolis,  this  amceiium 
hospitum  peregrincz  gentis  then  had  its  peculiar  renown  for 
certain  dainties  of  the  palate  ;  and  various  in  degree  and 
character  were  the  numerous  parties  from  the  neighboring 
towns  and  farms,  which  upon  every  legitimate  holiday  were 
wont  to  assemble  at  the  mansion  of  mine  host  of  "  the  Jolly 
Angler,"  in  order  to  feast  upon  eel-pie,  and  grow  merry  over  the 
true  Herefordshire  cider. 

But  upon  that  especial  day  on  which  we  are  about  to  intro- 
duce our  reader  into  the  narrow  confines  of  its  common  parlor, 
the  said  hostelry  was  crowded  with  persons  of  a  very  different 
description  from  the  peaceable  idlers  who  were  ordinarily  wont 
to  empty  mine  host's  larder,  and  forget  the  price  of  corn  over 
the  divine  inspirations  of  pomarial  nectar.  Instead  of  the  in- 
dolent satisfied  air  of  the  saturnalian  merry-maker,  the  vagrant 
angler,  or  the  gentleman  farmer,  with  his  comely  dame  who 
"walked  in  silk  attire,  and  siller  had  to  spare";  instead  of  the 
quiet  yet  glad  countenances  of  such  hunters  of  pleasure  and 
eaters  of  eel-pie,  or  the  more  obstreperous  joy  of  urchins  let 
loose  from  school  to  taste  some  brief  and  perennial  recreation, 
and  mine  host's  delicacies  at  the  same  time  ;  instead  of  these, 
the  little  parlor  presented  a  various  and  perturbed  group,  upon 
whose  features  neither  eel-pie  nor  Herefordshire  cider  had 
Avrought  the  relaxation  of  a  holiday,  or  the  serenity  of  a  moment- 
ary content. 

The  day  to  which  we  noAV  refer  was  the  one  immediately 

preceding  that  appointed  for  the  far-famed  meeting  at  W ; 

and  many  of  the  patriots,  false  or  real,  who  journeyed  from  a 
distance  to  attend  that  rendezvous,  had  halted  at  our  host's  of 
the  Jolly  Angler;  both  as  being  within  a  convenient  space 
from  the  appointed  spot,  and  as  a  tabernacle  where  promiscu- 
ous intrusion,  and  (haply)  immoderate  charges,  were  less  likely 
to  occur  than  at  the  bustling  and  somewhat  extortionary  hotels 
and  inns  of  the  town  of  W . 

The  times  in  which  this  meeting  was  held  were  those  of  great 


THE    DISOWNED.  551 

popular  excitement  and  discontent ;  and  the  purport  of  the 
meeting  proposed  was  to  petition  Parliament  against  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  American  war,  and  the  king  against  the  con- 
tinuance of  his  ministers. 

Placards  of  an  unusually  inflammatory  and  imprudent  na- 
ture had  given  great  alarm  to  the  more  sober  and  well-disposed 

persons  in  the  neighborhood  of  W ;  and  so  much  fear  was 

felt  or  assumed  upon  the  occasion,  that  a  new  detachment  of 
Lord  Ulswater's  regiment  had  been  especially  ordered  into  the 
town  ;  and  it  was  generally  rumored  that  the  legal  authorities 
would  interfere,  even  by  force,  for  the  dispersion  of  the  meet- 
ing in  question.  These  circumstances  had  given  the  measure  a 
degree  of  general  and  anxious  interest  which  it  would  not  other- 
wise have  excited  ;  and  while  everybody  talked  of  the  danger 
of  attending  the  assembly,  everybody  resolved  to  thrust  him- 
self into  it. 

It  was  about  the  goodly  hour  of  noon,  and  the  persons  as- 
sembled were  six  in  number,  all  members  of  the  most  violent 
party,  and  generally  considered  by  friend  and  foe  as  embracers 
of  republican  tenets.  One  of  these,  a  little,  oily,  corpulent 
personage,  would  have  appeared  far  too  sleek  and  well  fed  for 
a  disturber  of  things  existing,  had  not  a  freckled,  pimpled,  and 
fiery  face,  a  knit  brow,  and  a  small  black  eye  of  intolerable 
fierceness,  belied  the  steady  and  contented  appearance  of  his 
frame  and  girth.  This  gentleman,  by  name  Christopher  Cul- 
pepper, spoke  in  a  quick,  muffled,  shuffling  sort  of  tone,  like 
the  pace  of  a  Welsh  pony,  somewhat  lame,  perfectly  broken- 
winded,  but  an  exemplary  ambler  for  all  that. 

Next  to  him  sate,  with  hands  clasped  over  his  knees,  a  thin, 
small  man,  with  a  countenance  prematurely  wrinkled,  and  an 
air  of  great  dejection.  Poor  Castleton  !  his  had  been  indeed 
the  bitter  lot  of  a  man,  honest  but  weak,  who  attaches  himself, 
heart  and  soul,  to  a  public  cause  which,  in  his  life  at  least,  is 
hopeless.  Three  other  men  were  sitting  by  the  open  window, 
disputing  with  the  most  vehement  gestures  upon  the  character 
of  Wilkes  ;  and  at  the  other  window,  alone,  silent,  and  absorbed, 
sat  a  man  whose  appearance  and  features  were  singularly  cal- 
culated to  arrest  and  to  concentrate  attention.  His  raven  hair, 
grizzled  with  the  first  advance  of  age,  still  preserved  its  strong, 
wiry  curl  and  luxuriant  thickness.  His  brows,  large,  bushy, 
and  indicative  of  great  determination,  met  over  eyes  which,  al 
that  moment,  were  fixed  upon  vacancy  with  a  look  of  thought 
and  calmness  very  unusual  to  their  ordinary  restless  and  rapid 
glances.    His  mouth,  that  great  s^at  of  pharagter,  was  firmly  and 


352  THE    DISOWNED. 

obstinately  shut ;  and  though,  at  the  first  observation,  its  down- 
ward curve  and  iron  severity  wore  the  appearance  of  unmiti- 
gated harshness,  disdain,  and  resolve,  yet  a  more  attentive 
deducer  of  signs  from  features  would  not  have  been  able  to 
detect  in  its  expression  anything  resembling  selfishness  or  sensu- 
ality, and  in  thatabsence  would  have  found  sufficient  to  redeem 
the  more  repellent  mdications  of  mind  which  it  betrayed. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  landlord,  making 
some  apology  to  both  parties  for  having  no  other  apartment 
unoccupied,  introduced  a  personage  whose  dress  and  air,  as 
well  as  a  kind  of  saddle-bag,  which  he  would  not  entrust  to 
any  other  bearer  than  himself,  appeared  to  denote  him  as  one 
rather  addicted  to  mercantile  than  political  speculations.  Cer- 
tainly he  did  not  seem  much  at  home  among  the  patriotic 
reformers,  who,  having  glared  upon  him  for  a  single  moment, 
renewed,  without  remark,  their  several  attitudes  or  occupations. 

The  stranger,  after  a  brief  pause,  approached  the  solitary 
reformer  whom  we  last  described  ;  and  making  a  salutation, 
half  timorous  and  half  familiar,  thus  accosted  him  : 

"Your  servant,  Mr.  Wolfe,  your  servant.  I  think  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  you  a  long  time  ago  at  the  Westminster 
election  :  very  eloquent  you  were,  sir,  very  ! " 

Wolfe  looked  up  for  an  instant  at  the  face  of  the  speaker, 
and,  not  recognizing  it,  turned  abruptly  away,  threw  open  the 
window,  and,  leaning  out,  appeared  desirous  of  escaping  from 
all  further  intrusion  on  the  part  of  the  stranger :  but  that  gen- 
tleman was  by  no  means  of  a  nature  easily  abashed. 

"  Fine  day,  sir,  for  the  time  of  year — very  fine  day,  indeed. 
October  is  a  charming  month,  as  my  lamented  friend  and  cus- 
tomer, the  late  Lady  Waddilove,  was  accustomed  to  say. 
Talking  of  that  sir,  as  the  winter  is  now  approaching,  do  you 
not  think  it  would  be  prudent,  Mr.  Wolfe,  to  provide  yourself 
with  an  umbrella  ?  I  have  an  admirable  one  which  1  might 
dispose  of :  it  is  from  the  effects  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove. 
*  Brown,'  said  her  ladyship,  a  short  time  before  her  death — 
'Brown,  you  are  a  good  creature;  but  you  ask  too  much  for 
the  Dresden  vase.  We  have  known  each  other  for  a  long 
time — you  must  take  fourteen  pounds  ten  shillings,  and  you 
may  have  that  umbrella,  in  the  corner,  into  the  bargain.'  Mr. 
Wolfe,  the  bargain  was  completed,  and  the  umbrella  became 
mine — it  may  now  be  yours." 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Brown,  depositing  his  saddle-bag  on  the 
ground,  proceeded  to  unfold  an  umbrella  of  singular  antiquity 
and  form — a  very  long  stick,  tipped  with  ivory,  being  sur- 


THE    DISOWNED.  353 

mounted  with  about  a  quarter  of  a  yard  of  sea-green  silk, 
somewhat  discolored  by  time  and  wear. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  article,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  admiringly 
surveying  it — "  is  it  not  ?" 

"Pshaw!"  said  Wolfe  impatiently — "what  have  I  to  do 
with  your  goods  and  chattels — go  and  palm  the  cheatings  and 
impositions  of  your  pitiful  trade  upon  some  easier  gull." 

"Cheatings  and  impositions,  Mr,  Wolfe!"  cried  the  slan- 
dered Brown,  perfectly  aghast:  "I  would  have  you  to  know, 
sir,  that  I  have  served  the  first  families  in  the  country,  ay,  and 
in  this  county  too.  and  never  had  such  words  applied  to  me 
before.  Sir,  there  was  the  late  Lady  Waddilove,  and  the 
respected  Mrs.  Minden,  and  her  nephew  the  ambassador,  and 
the  Duchess  of  Pugadale,  and  Mr.  Mordaunt  of  Mordaunt 
Court,  poor  gentleman — though  he  is  poor  no  more,"  and 
Mr.  Brown  proceeded  to  enumerate  the  long  list  of  his 
customers. 

Now,  we  have  stated  that  Wolfe,  though  he  had  never  known 
the  rank  of  Mordaunt,  was  acquainted  with  his  real  name  ; 
and,  as  the  sound  caught  his  ear,  he  muttered  "Mordaunt — 
Mordaunt — ay,  but  not  my  former  acquaintance — not  him  who 
was  called  Glendower.     No,  no — the  man  cannot:  mean  him." 

"Yes,  sir,  but  I  do  mean  him,"  cried  Brown,  in  a  rage.  "I 
do  mean  that  Mr.  Glendower,  who  afterwards  took  another 
name,  but  whose  real  appellation  is  Mr.  Algernon  Mordaunt,  of 
Mordaunt  Court,  in  this  county,  sir." 

"What  description  of  man  is  he?"  said  Wolfe;  "rather 
tall,  slender,  with  an  air  and  mien  like  a  king's,  I  was  going  to 
say — but  better  than  a  king's — like  a  free  man's?" 

"Ay,  ay, — the  same,"  answered  Mr.  Brown  sullenly;  "but 
why  should  I  tell  you — 'cheating  and  imposition,'  indeed  ! — I 
am  sure  my  word  can  be  of  no  avail  to  you — and  I  shant  stay 
here  any  longer  to  be  insulted,  Mr.  Wolfe — which,  I  am  sure, 
talking  of  freemen,  no  freeman  ought  to  submit  to ;  but  as  the 
late  Lady  Waddilove  once  very  wisely  said  to  me,  'Brown, 
never  have  anything  to  do  with  those  republicans,  they  are  the 
worst  tyrants  of  all.'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Wolfe — gentlemen, 
your  servant — 'cheating  and  imposition,' indeed  !  " — and  Mr. 
Brown  banged  the  door  as  he  departed. 

"Wolfe,"  said  Mr.  Christopher  Culpepper,  "who  is  that 
man?" 

"  I  know  not,"  answered  the  republican  laconically,  and 
gazing  on  the  ground,  apparently  in  thought. 

"  He  has  the  air  of  a  slave,"  quoth  the  free  Culpepper  ;  "and 


354  THE    DISOWNED. 

slaves  cannot  bear  the  company  of  freemen  ;  therefore  he  did 
right  to  go — whe-w ! — Had  we  a  proper,  and  thorough, 
and  efficient  reform,  human  nature  would  not  be  thus  de- 
based by  trades,  and  callings,  and  barters,  and  exchange,  for 
all  professions  are  injurious  to  the  character  and  the  dignity  of 
men — whe-w  !  but  as  I  shall  prove  upon  the  hustings  to- 
morrow, it  is  in  vain  to  hope  for  any  amendment  in  the 
wretched  state  of  things  until  the  people  of  these  realms  are 
fully,  freely,  and  fairly  represented — whe-w  ! — Gentlemen,  it 
is  past  two,  and  we  have  not  ordered  dinner — whe-w  ! " 
■ — (N.  B.  This  ejaculation  denotes  the  kind  of  snuffle  which 
lent  peculiar  energy  to  the  dicta  of  Mr.  Culpepper.) 

"  Ring  tlie  bell,  then,  and  summon  the  landlord,"  said,  very 
pertinently,  one  of  the  three  disputants  upon  the  character  of 
Wilkes. 

The  landlord  appeared  ;  dinner  was  ordered. 

"Pray,"  said  Wolfe,  "has  that  man,  Mr.  Brown,  I  think  he 
called  himself,  left  the  inn  ! " 

"He  has,  sir,  for  he  was  mightily  offended  at  something 
which — " 

"And,"  interrupted  Wolfe,  "how  far  hence  does  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt  live  ?" 

"About  five  miles  on  the  other  side  of  W ,"  answered 

mine  host. 

Wolfe  rose,  seized  his  hat,  and  was  about  to  depart. 

"Stay,  stay,"  cried  citizen  Christopher  Culpepper;  "you 
will  not  leave  us  till  after  dinner?" 

"I  shall  dine  at  W ,"  answered  Wolfe,  quitting  the  room. 

"Then  our  reckoning  will  be  heavier,"  said  Culpepper.  "It 
is  not  handsome  in  Wolfe  to  leave  us — whe-w  ! — Really  I 
think  that  our  brother  in  the  great  cause  has  of  late  relaxed 
in  his  attentions  and  zeal  to  the  goddess  of  our  devotions — 
whe-w  ! " 

"It  is  human  nature!"  cried  one  of  the  three  disputants 
upon  the  character  of  Wilkes. 

"  It  is  not  human  nature  ! "  cried  the  second  disputant, 
folding  his  arms  doggedly,  in  preparation  for  a  discussion. 

"Contemptible  human  nature!"  exclaimed  the  third  dis- 
putant, soliloquizing  with  a  supercilious  expression  of  hateful 
disdain. 

"Poor  human  nature!"  murmured   Castleton,  looking  up- 
ward,  with  a  sigh;  and   though   we   have  not  given  to  that, 
gentleman   other  words  than   these,  we  think   they  are  almost 
sufficient  to  let  our  readers  into  his  character. 


THE   DISOWNED.  355 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

"  Silvis,  ubi  passim 
Palantcs  error  certo  de  tramite  pellit, 
lUe  sinistrorsum  hie  dextrorsum  abit ;  unus  utrique 
Error,  sed  variis  illudit  partibus."  * — Horat. 

As  Wolfe  strode  away  from  the  inn,  he  muttered  to  himself — 

"Can  it  be  that  Mordaunt  has  suddenly  grown  rich?  If  so, 
I  reioice  at  it.  True,  that  he  was  not  for  our  cause,  but  he 
had  tlie  spirit  and  the  heart  which  belonged  to  it.  Had  he  not 
been  bred  among  the  prejudices  of  birth,  or  had  he  lived  in 
stormier  times,  he  might  have  been  the  foremost  champion  of 
freedom.  As  it  is,  I  rather  lament  than  condemn.  Yet  I 
would  fain  see  him  once  more.  Perhaps  prosperity  may  have 
altered  his  philosophy.  But  can  he,  indeed,  be  the  same  Mor- 
daunt of  whom  that  trading  itinerant  spoke?  Can  he  have 
risen  to  the  pernicious  eminence  of  a  landed  aristocrat  ? 
Well,  it  is  worth  the  journey  ;  for  if  he  have  power  in 
the  neighborhood,  I  am  certain  that  he  will  exert  it  for  our  pro- 
tection ;  and  at  the  worst,  I  shall  escape  from  the  idle  words 
of  my  compatriots.  Oh  !  if  it  were  possible  that  the  advocates 
could  debase  the  glory  of  the  cause,  how  long  since  should 
I  have  flinched  from  the  hardship  and  the  service  to  which  my 
life  is  devoted  !  Self-interest,  Envy,  that  snarls  at  all  above 
it,  without  even  the  beast's  courage  to  bite — Folly,  that  knows 
not  the  substance  of  freedom,  but  loves  the  glitter  of  its  name — 
Fear,  that  falters — Crime,  that  seeks  in  licentiousness  an  ex- 
cuse— Disappointment,  only  craving  occasion  to  rail — Hatred — 
Sourness,  boasting  of  zeal,  but  only  venting  the  blackness  of 
rancor  and  evil  passion — all  these  make  our  adherents,  and 
give  our  foes  the  handle  and  the  privilege  to  scorn  and  to 
despise.  But  man  chooses  the  object,  and  Fate  only  furnishes 
the  tools.  Happy  for  our  posterity,  that  when  the  object  is 
once  gained,  the  frailty  of  the  tools  will  be  no  more  ! " 

Thus  soliloquizing,  the  republican  walked  rapidly  onwards, 
till  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  before  his  eye  the  form  of  Mr. 
Brown,  seated  upon  a  little  rough  pony,  and  "  whistling  as  he 
went,  for  want  of  thought." 

Wolfe  quickened  his  pace,  and  soon  overtook  him. 

"You  must  forgive  me,  my  good  man,"  said  he  soothingly, 
"  I  meant  not  to  impeach  your  honesty  or  your  calling.     Per- 

*  Wandering  in  those  woods  where  error  evermore  forces  life's  stragglers  from  the  bealen 
path— this  one  deflects  to  the  left — his  fellow  chooses  the  exact  contrary.  The  fault  is  oU 
'he  same  in  each,  but  it  excuses  itself  by  a  thousand  different  reasons. 


3S<5  THE  DISOWNED. 

haps  I  was  hasty  and  peevish  ;  and,  in  sad  earnest,  1  have 
much  to  tease  and  distract  me." 

"Well,  sir,  well,"  answered  Mr.  Brown,  greatly  mollified: 
"  I  am  sure  no  Christian  can  be  more  forgiving  than  I  am  ; 
and,  since  you  are  sorry  for  what  you  were  pleased  to  say,  let 
us  think  no  more  about  it.  But  touching  tlie  umbrella,  Mr. 
Wolfe — have  you  a  mind  for  that  interesting  and  useful  relic 
of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present,  I  thank  you,"  said  Wolfe  mildly  :  "I  care 
little  for  the  inclemencies  of  the  heavens,  and  you  may  find 
many  to  whom  your  proffered  defence  from  them  may  be  more 
acceptable.  But  tell  me  if  the  Mr.  Mordaunt  you  mentioned 
was  ever  residing  in  town,  and  in  very  indifferent  circum- 
stances?" 

"  Probably  he  was, "  said  the  cautious  Brown,  who,  as  we 
before  said,  had  been  bribed  into  silence,  and  who  now  griev- 
ously repented  that  passion  had  betrayed  him  into  the  im- 
prudence of  candor  ;  "  but  I  really  do  not  busy  myself  about 
other  people's  affairs.  'Brown,'  said  the  late  Lady  Waddilove 
lo  me — '  Brown,  you  are  a  good  creature,  and  never  talk  of 
what  does  not  concern  you.'  Those,  Mr.  Wolfe,  were  her 
Ladyship's  own  words  !" 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  reformer,  who  did  not  want  shrewd- 
ness, and  saw  that  his  point  was  already  sufficiently  gained  ; 
**  as  you  please.  And  now,  to  change  the  subject,  I  suppose 
we  shall  have  your  attendance  at  the  meeting  at  W to- 
morrow?" 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  worthy  Brown  ;  "  I  thought  it  likely  I 
should  meet  many  of  my  old  customers  in  the  town  on  such  a 
busy  occasion  ;  so  I  went  a  little  out  of  my  way  home  to  Lon- 
don, in  order  to  spend  a  night  or  two  there.  Indeed,  I  have 
some  valuable  articles  for  Mr.  Glumford,  the  magistrate,  who 
will  be  in  attendance  to-morrow." 

"  They  say,"  observed  Wolfe,  "  that  the  magistrates,  against 
all  law,  right,  and  custom,  will  dare  to  interfere  with,  and  re- 
sist the  meeting.     Think  you  report  says  true?  " 

"  Nay,"  returned  Brown  prudently,  "  I  cannot  exactly  pretend 
to  decide  the  question  !  AH  I  know  is  that  Squire  Glumford 
said  to  me,  at  his  own  house,  five  days  ago,  as  he  was  drawing 
on  his  boots — 'Brown, 'said  he, 'Brown,  mark  my  words,  we 
shall  do  for  those  rebellious  dogs  ! '  " 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?"  muttered  Wolfe  between  his  teeth.  "Oh, 
for  the  old  times,  or  those  yet  to  come,  when  our  answer  would 
have  been,  or  shall  be — the  sword  '  " 


tHE  DISOWNED.  ^57 

"  And  you  know,"  pursued  Mr.  Brown,  "  that  Lord  Ulswater 
and  his  regiment  are  in  the  town,  and  have  even  made  great 
preparations  against  the  meeting  a  week  ago.  " 

"I  have  heard  this,"  said  Wolfe  ;  "but  I  cannot  think  that 
any  body  of  armed  men  dare  interrupt  or  attack  a  convocation 
of  peaceable  subjects,  met  solely  to  petition  Parliament  against 
famine  for  themselves  and  slavery  for  their  children." 

"  Famine  !  "  quoth  Mr.  Brown.  "  Indeed  it  is  very  true — 
very  ! — times  are  dreadfully  bad.  I  can  scarcely  get  my  own 
living — Parliament  certainly  ought  to  do  something  ;  but  you 
must  forgive  me,  Mr.  Wolfe,  it  may  be  dangerous  to  talk  with 
you  on  these  matters  :  and,  now  I   think  of  it,  the  sooner  I  get 

to  W the  better — good  morning — a  shower's  coming  on  : — 

You  won't  have  the  umbrella,  then?" 

"They  dare  not,"  said  Wolfe  to  himself,  "no,  no, — they  dare 
not  attack  us — they  dare  not  ";  and  clenching  his  fist,  he 
pursued,  with  a  quicker  step,  and  a  more  erect  mien,  his  soli- 
tary way. 

When  he  was  about  the  distance  of  three  miles  from  W , 

he  was  overtaken  by  a  middle-aged  man,  of  a  frank  air  and  a 
respectable  appearance.  "  Good  day,  sir,"said  he  ;  "we  seem 
to  be  journeying  the  same  way — will  it  be  against  your  wishes 
to  join  company  ? " 

Wolfe  assented,  and  the  stranger  resumed  : 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  you   intend  to  be  present  at  the  meeting  at 

W to-morrow.     There  will  be  an  immense  concourse,  and 

the  entrance  of  a  new  detachment  of  soldiers,  and  the  various 
reports  of  the  likelihood  of  their  interference  with  the  assembly, 
make  it  an  object  of  some  interest  and  anxiety  to  look  for- 
ward to." 

"True — true,"  said  Wolfe  slowly,  eyeing  his  new  acquaint- 
ance with  a  deliberate  and  scrutinizing  attention.  "It  will, in- 
deed, be  interesting  to  see  how  far  an  evil  and  hardy  govern- 
ment will  venture  to  encroach  upon  the  rights  of  the  people, 
which  it  ruins  while  it  pretends  to  rule," 

"Of  a  truth,"  rejoined  the  other,  "I  rejoice  that  I  am  no 
politician.  I  believe  my  spirit  is  as  free  as  any  cooped  in  the 
narrow  dungeon  of  earth's  clay  can  well  be  ;  yet  I  confess  that 
it  has  drawn  none  of  its  liberty  from  book,  pamphlet,  speech, 
or  newspaper,  of  modern  times." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  you,  sir,"  said  Wolfe  sourly:  "the 
man  who  has  health  and  education  can  find  no  excuse  for 
supineness  or  indifference  to  that  form  of  legislation  by  which 
his  country  decays  or  prospers." 


358  THE  DISOWNED. 

"  Why,"  said  the  other  gayly,  "  I  willingly  confess  myself 
less  of  a  patriot  than  a  philosopher ;  and  as  long  as  I  am  harm- 
less,  I  strive  very  little  to  be  useful,  in  a  public  capacity  ;  in  a 
private  one,  as  a  father,  a  husband,  and  a  neighbor,  I  trust  I 
am  not  utterly  without  my  value," 

"  Pish  ! "  cried  Wolfe  ;  "  let  no  man  who  forgets  his  public 
duties,  prate  of  his  private  merits.  I  tell  you,  man,  that  he 
who  can  advance  by  a  single  hair's-breadth  the  happiness  or  the 
freedom  of  mankind  has  done  more  to  save  his  own  soul  than 
if  he  had  paced  every  step  of  the  narrow  circle  of  his  domestic 
life  with  the  regularity  of  clock-work," 

"You  may  be  right,"  quoth  the  stranger  carelessly;  "but  I 
look  on  things  in  the  mass,  and  perhaps  see  only  the  super- 
ficies, while  you,  I  perceive  already,  are  a  lover  of  the  abstract. 
For  my  part,  Harry  Fielding's  two  definitions  seem  to  me  ex- 
cellent. 'Patriot — a  candidate  for  a  place!'  'Politics — the 
art  of  getting  such  a  place ! '  Perhaps,  sir,  as  you  seem  a  man 
of  education,  you  remember  the  words  of  our  great  novelist." 

"No  !"  answered  Wolfe,  a  little  contemptuously — "I  cannot 
say  that  I  burthen  my  memory  with  the  deleterious  witticisms 
and  shallow  remarks  of  writers  of  fancy.  It  has  been  a  mighty 
and  spreading  evil  to  the  world,  that  the  vain  fictions  of  the 
poets  or  the  exaggerations  of  novelists  have  been  hitherto  so 
welcomed  and  extolled.  Better  had  it  been  for  us  if  the  de- 
struction of  the  lettered  v/ealth  at  Alexandria  had  included  all 
the  lighter  works  which  have  floated,  from  their  very  levity, 
down  the  stream  of  time,  an  example  and  a  corruption  to  the 
degraded  geniuses  of  later  days." 

The  eyes  of  the  stranger  sparkled.  "Why,  you  outgolh  the 
Goth !  "  exclaimed  he  sharply.  "  But  you  surely  preach 
against  what  you  have  not  studied.  Confess  that  you  are  but 
slightly  acquainted  with  Shakspeare,  and  Spenser,  and  noble 
Dan  Chaucer.  Ay,  if  you  knew  them  as  well  as  I  do,  you 
would,  like  me,  give 

*  To  hem  faith  and  full  credence, 
And  in  your  heart  have  hem  in  reverence.' " 

"Pish  !"  again  muttered  Wolfe ;  and  then  rejoined  aloud, 
"  It  grieves  me  to  see  time  so  wasted,  and  judgment  so  per- 
verted, as  yours  appears  to  have  been  ;  but  it  fills  me  with  i)iLy 
and  surprise,  as  well  as  grief,  to  find  that,  so  far  from  slinme  at 
the  effeminacy  of  your  studies,  you  appear  to  glory  and  exult 
in  them." 

"May  the  Lord  help  me,  and  lighten  thee,"  said  Cole— for  it 
was  he.     "You  are   at  le^st  not  a  novelty  in  human  wisdom, 


THE    DISOWNED.  359 

whatever  you  may  be  in  character ;  for  you  are  far  from  being 
the  only  one  proud  of  being  ignorant,  and  pitying  those  who 
are  not  so." 

Wolfe  darted  one  of  his  looks  of  fire  at  the  speaker,  who 
nothing  abashed,  met  the  glance  with  an  eye,  if  not  as  fiery,  at 
least  as  bold. 

"I  see,"  said  the  republican,  *'that  we  shall  not  agree  upon 
the  topics  you  have  started.  If  you  still  intrude  your 
society  upon  me,  you  will,  at  least,  choose  some  other  subject 
of  conversation." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Cole,  whose  very  studies,  while  they  had 
excited,  in  their  self-defence,  his  momentary  warmth,  made  him 
habitually  courteous  and  urbane — "  pardon  me  for  my  hasti- 
ness of  expression.  I  own  myself  in  fault."  And,  with  this 
apology,  our  ex-king  slid  into  the  new  topics  which  the  scenery 
and  weather  afforded  him. 

Wolfe,  bent  upon  the  object  of  his  present  mission,  made  some 
inquiries  respecting  Mordaunt ;  and  though  Cole  only  shared 
the  uncertain  information  of  the  country  gossips,  as  to  the  past 
history  of  that  person,  yet  the  little  he  did  know  was  sufficient 
to  confirm  the  republican  in  his  belief  of  Algernon's  identity  ; 
while  the  ex-gypsy's  account  of  his  rank  and  reputation  in  the 
country  made  Wolfe  doubly  anxious  to  secure,  if  possible,  his 
good  offices  and  interference  on  behalf  of  the  meeting.  But 
the  conversation  was  not  always  restricted  to  neutral  and  indif- 
ferent ground,  but,  ever  and  anon,  wandered  into  various  allu- 
sions or  opinions,  from  the  one,  certain  to  beget  retort  or  con- 
troversy in  the  other. 

Had  we  time,  and  our  reader  patience,  it  would  have  been 
a  rare  and  fine  contrast  to  have  noted  more  at  large  the  differ- 
ences of  thought  and  opinion  between  the  companions ;  each 
in  his  several  way  so  ardent  for  liberty,  and  so  impatient  of  the 
control  and  customs  of  society;  each  so  enthusiastic  for  the 
same  object,  yet  so  coldly  contemptuous  to  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  other.  The  one  guided  only  by  his  poetical  and  erratic 
tastes,  the  other  solely  by  dreams,  seeming  to  the  world  no  less 
baseless,  yet,  to  his  own  mind,  bearing  the  name  of  stern  judg- 
ment and  inflexible  truth.  Both  men  of  active  and  adventur- 
ous spirits,  to  whom  forms  were  fetters,  and  ceremonies  odious  ; 
iyet,  deriving  from  that  mutual  similarity  only  pity  for  mutual 
perversion,  they  were  memorable  instances  of  the  great  differ- 
ences congeniality  itself  will  occasion,  and  of  the  never-end- 
ing varieties  which  minds  rather  under  the  influence  of  imag- 
ination than  judgment  will  create. 


360  THE   DISOWNED. 

CHAPTER  LXXV. 
"Gratis  anhelans,  multa  agendo,  nihil  agens."* — Ph^drtJs. 

Upon  entering  the  town,  the  streets  displayed  all  the  bustle 
and  excitement  which  the  approaching  meeting  was  eminently 
calculated  to  create  in  a  place  ordinarily  quiescent  and  undis- 
turbed ;  groups  of  men  were  scattered  in  different  parts 
conversing  with  great  eagerness ;  while  here  and  there, 
some  Demosthenes  of  the  town,  impatient  of  the  coming  strife, 
was  haranguing  his  little  knot  of  admiring  friends,  and  prepar- 
ing his  oratorical  organs  by  petty  skirmishing  for  the  grand 
battle  of  the  morrow.  Now  and  then  the  eye  roved  upon  the 
gaunt  forms  of  Lord  Ulswater's  troopers,  as  they  strolled  idly 
along  the  streets,  in  pairs,  perfectly  uninterested  by  the  great 
event  which  set  all  the  more  peaceable  inmates  of  the  town  in 
a  ferment,  and  returning,  with  a  slighting  and  supercilious 
glance,  the  angry  looks  and  muttered  anathemas  which,  ever 
and  anon,  the  hardier  spirits  of  the  petitioning  party  liberally 
bestowed  upon  them. 

As  Wolfe  and  his  comrade  entered  the  main  street,  the  for- 
mer was  accosted  by  some  one  of  his  compatriots,  who,  seiz- 
ing him  by  the  arm,  was  about  to  apprise  the  neighboring  idlers, 
by  a  sudden  exclamation,  of  the  welcome  entrance  of  the  elo- 
quent and  noted  republican.  But  Wolfe  perceived,  and 
thwarted  his  design. 

**  Hush  ! "  said  he,  in  a  low  voice  ;  "  I  am  only  now  on  my 
way  to  an  old  friend,  who  seems  a  man  of  influence  in  these 
parts,  and  may  be  of  avail  to  us  on  the  morrow  ;  keep  silence, 
therefore,  with  regard  to  my  coming  till  I  return.  I  would  not 
have  my  errand  interrupted." 

"As  you  will,"  said  the  brother-spirit ;  "but  whom  have  you 
here — a  fellow  laborer?"  and  the  reformer  pointed  to  Cole, 
who,  with  an  expression  of  shrewd  humor,  blended  with  a  sort 
of  philosophical  compassion,  stood  at  a  little  distance  waiting 
for  Wolfe,  and  eyeing  the  motley  groups  assembled  before  him. 

"No,"  answered  Wolfe  ;  "  he  is  some  vain  and  idle  sower  of 
unprofitable  flowers  ;  a  thing  who  loves  poetry,  and,  for  aught 
I  know,  writes  it ;  but  that  reminds  me  that  I  must  rid  myself 
of  his  company  ;  yet  stay — do  you  know  this  neighborhood 
sufficiently  to  serve  me  as  a  guide  ?" 

"Ah,"  quoth  the  other  ;  "I  was  born  within  three  miles  of 
the  town." 

*  Panting  and  laboring  in  vain  ;  doing  much — effecting  nothing. 


THE   DISOWNED.  361 

^Indeed  !"  rejoined  Wolfe ;  "then,  perhaps  you  can  tell  me 
it  there  is  any  way  of  reaching  a  place  called  Mordaunt  Court, 
without  passing  through  the  more  public  and  crowded  thorough- 
fares." 

"  To  be  sure,"  rejoined  the  brother-spirit;  "you  have  only 
to  turn  to  the  right  up  yon  hill,  and  you  will  in  an  instant  be 
S)ut  of  the  purlieus  and  precincts  of  W ,  and  on  your  short- 
est road  to  Mordaunt  Court ;  but  surely  it  is  not  to  its  owner 
that  you  are  bound  ? " 

*'  And  why  not  ? "  said  Wolfe, 

"Because,"  replied  the  other,  "he  is  the  wealthiest,  the high- 
jst,  and,  as  report  says,  the  haughtiest  aristocrat  of  these 
jarts." 

"  So  much  the  better,  then,"  said  Wolfe,  "  can  he  aid  us  in 
f>btaining  a  quiet  hearing  to-morrow,  undisturbed  by  those  liv- 
eried varlets  of  hire,  who  are  termed,  in  sooth,  Britain's  de- 
fence !  Much  better,  when  we  think  of  all  they  cost  us  to  pam- 
per and 'to  clothe,  should  they  be  termed  Britain's  ruin;  but 
farewell  for  the  present  ;  we  shall  meet  to-night ;  your  lodg- 
ings—  ?" 

"  Yonder,"  said  the  other,  pointing  to  a  small  inn  opposite  ; 
and  Wolfe,  nodding  his  adieu,  returned  to  Cole,  whose  viva- 
cious and  restless  nature  had  already  made  him  impatient  of 
his  companion's  delay. 

■'I  must  take  my  leave  of  you  now,"  said  Wolfe,  "which  I 
do  with  a  hearty  exhortation  that  you  will  change  your  studies, 
fit  only  for  effeminate  and  enslaved  minds." 

"And  I  return  the  exhortation,"  answered  Cole.  "Your 
studies  seem  to  me  ten-fold  more  crippling  than  mine  :  mine 
takes  all  this  earth's  restraint  from  me,  and  yours  seem  only  to 
remind  you  that  all  earth  is  restraint:  mine  show  me  whatever 
worlds  the  fondest  fancy  could  desire;  yours  only  the  follies 
and  chains  of  this.  In  short,  while  'my  mind  to  me  a  kingdom 
is,*  yours  seems  to  consider  the  whole  universe  itself  nothing 
but  a  great  meeting  for  the  purpose  of  abusing  ministers  and 
demanding  reform  !  " 

Not  too  well  pleased  by  this  answer,  and  at  the  same  time 
indisposed  to  delay  of  further  reply,  Wolfe  contented  himself 
with  an  iron  sneer  of  disdain,  and,  turning  on  his  heel,  strode 
rapidly  away  in  the  direction  his  friend  had  indicated. 

Meanwhile,  Cole  followed  him  with  his  eye,  till  he  was  out 
of  sight,  and  then  muttered  to  himself — "  Never  was  there  a  fit- 
ter addition  to  old  Barclay's  '  Ship  of  Fools  !  *  I  should  not 
wonder  if  this  man's  patriotism  leads  him  from  despising  the 


362  THE    DISOWNED. 

legislature  into  breaking  the  law  ;  and  faith,  the  surest  way  to 
the  gallows  is  less  through  vice  than  discontent ;  yet,  I  would 
fain  hope  better  things  for  him — for,  methinks,  he  is  neither  a 
common  declaimer  nor  an  ordinary  man." 

With  these  words  the  honest  Cole  turned  away,  and,  stroll- 
ing towards  the  Goldeji  Fleece,  soon  found  himself  in  the  hos- 
pitable mansion  of  Mistress  and  Mister  Merrylack. 

While  the  ex-king  was  taking  his  ease  at  his  inn,  Wolfe  pro- 
ceeded to  Mordaunt  Court.  The  result  of  the  meeting  that 
there  ensued  was  a  determination  on  the  part  of  Algernon  to 
repair  immediately  to  W . 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 
"The  commons  here  in  Kent  are  up  in  arms." — Second  Part  of  Henry  VI. 

When  Mordaunt  arrived  at  W ,  he  found  that  the  pro- 
vincial deities  (who  were  all  assembled  at  dinner  with  the  prin- 
cipal inhabitants  of  the  town),  in  whose  hands  the  fate  of  the 
meeting  was  placed,  were  in  great  doubt  and  grievous  conster- 
nation. He  came  in  time,  first  to  balance  the  votes,  and 
ultimately  to  decide  them.  His  mind,  prudent  and  acute, 
when  turned  to  worldly  affairs,  saw  in  a  glance  the  harmless, 
though  noisy,  nature  of  the  meeting  ;  and  he  felt  that  tlie 
worst  course  the  government  or  the  county  could  pursue  would 
be  to  raise  into  importance,  by  violence,  what  otherwise  would 
meet  with  ridicule  from  most,  and  indifference  from  the  rest. 

His  large  estates,  his  ancient  name,  his  high  reputation  for 
talent,  joined  to  that  manner,  half  eloquent  and  half  command- 
ing, which  rarely  fails  of  effect  when  deliberation  only  requires 
a  straw  on  either  side  to  become  decision — all  these  rendered 
his  interference  of  immediate  avail ;  and  it  was  settled  that  the 
meeting  should,  as  similar  assemblies  had  done  before,  proceed 
and  conclude,  undisturbed  by  the  higher  powers,  so  long  as  no 
positive  act  of  sedition  to  the  government  or  danger  to  the 
town  was  committed. 

Scarcely  was  this  arrangement  agreed  upon,  before  Lord 
Ulswater,  who  had  hitherto  been  absent,  entered  the  room  in 
which  the  magisterial  conclave  was  assembled.  Mr.  Glumford 
(whom  our  readers  will  possibly  remember  as  the  suitor  to 
Isabel  St.  Leger,  and  who  had   at   first  opposed,  and  then  re- 


THE   DISOWNED.  363 

luctantly  subscribed  to,  Mordaunt's  interference)  bustled  up  to 
him. 

"  So,  so,  my  lord,"  said  he,  "  since  I  had  the  honor  of  seeing 
your  lordship,  quite  a  new  sort  of  trump  has  been  turned  up." 

"I  do  not  comprehend  your  metaphorical  elegancies  of 
speech,  Mr.  Glumford,"  said  Lord  Ulswater. 

Mr.  Glumford  explained.  Lord  Ulswater's  cheek  grew 
scarlet.  "So  Mr.  Mordaunt  has  effected  this  wise  alteration," 
said  he. 

"Nobody  else,  my  lord,  nobody  else;  and  I  am  sure,  though 
your  lordship's  estates  are  at  the  other  end  of  the  county,  yet 
they  are  much  larger  than  his ;  and  since  your  lordship  has  a 
troop  at  your  command,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  I  would  not,  if 
I  were  your  lordship,  suffer  any  such  opposition  to  your  wishes." 

Without  making  a  reply  to  this  harangue.  Lord  Ulswater 
stalked  haughtily  up  to  Mordaunt,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
wainscot,  and  conversing  with  those  around  him. 

"I  cannot  but  conceive,  Mr.  Mordaunt,"  said  he,  with  a  for- 
mal bow,  "that  I  have  been  misinformed  in  the  intelligence  I 
have  just  received." 

"  Lord  Ulswater  will  perhaps  inform  me  to  what  intelligence 
he  alludes." 

"  That  Mr.  Mordaunt,  the  representative  of  one  of  the  no- 
blest families  in  England,  has  given  the  encouragement  and  in- 
fluence of  his  name  and  rank  to  the  designs  of  a  seditious  and 
turbulent  mob." 

Mordaunt  smiled  slightly,  as  he  replied:  "Your  lordship 
rightly  believes  that  you  are  misinformed.  It  is  precisely  be- 
cause t  would  not  have  the  mob  you  speak  of  seditious  or  tur- 
bulent, that  I  have  made  it  my  request  that  the  meeting  of  to- 
morrow should  be  suffered  to  pass  off  undisturbed." 

"Then,  sir,"  cried  Lord  Ulswater,  striking  the  table  with  a 
violence  which  caused  three  reverend  potentates  of  the  province 
to  start  back  in  dismay,  "  I  cannot  but  consider  such  interfer- 
ence on  your  part  to  the  last  degree  impolitic  and  uncalled  for: 
these,  sir,  are  times  of  great  danger  to  the  state,  and  in  which 
it  is  indispensably  requisite  to  support  and  strengthen  the 
authority  of  the  law." 

"I  waive  at  present,"  answered  Mordaunt,  "all  reply  to  lan- 
guage neither  courteous  nor  appropriate.  I  doubt  not  but  that 
the  magistrates  will  decide  as  is  most  in  accordance  with  the 
spirit  of  that  law  which  in  this,  and  in  all  times,  should  be  sup- 
ported." 

"  Sir,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  losing  his  temper  more  and  more^ 


364  THE   DISOWNED. 

as  he  observed  that  the  by-standers,  whom  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  awe,  all  visibly  inclined  to  the  opinion  of  Mordaunt, 
*'sir,  if  your  name  has  been  instrumental  in  producing  so  un- 
fortunate a  determination  on  the  part  of  the  magistrates,  I  shall 
hold  you  responsible  to  the  government  for  those  results  which 
ordinary  prudence  may  calculate  upon." 

"  When  Lord  Ulswater,"  said  Mordaunt  sternly,  "has  learned 
what  is  due,  not  only  to  the  courtesies  of  society,  but  to  those 
legitimate  authorities  of  his  country,  who  (he  ventures  to  sup- 
pose) are  to  be  influenced  contrary  to  their  sense  of  duty,  by 
any  individual,  then  he  may,  perhaps,  find  leisure  to  make  him- 
self better  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  those  laws  which  he 
now  so  vehemently  upholds." 

"Mr.  Mordaunt,  you  will  consider  yourself  answerable  to  me 
for  those  words,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  with  a  tone  of  voice  un- 
naturally calm  ;  and  the  angry  flush  of  his  countenance  gave 
place  to  a  livid  paleness.  Then,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  left 
the  room. 

As  he  repaired  homeward,  he  saw  one  of  his  soldiers  engaged 
in  a  loud  and  angry  contest  with  a  man,  in  the  plain  garb  of  a 
peaceful  citizen  ;  a  third  person,  standing  by,  appeared  inef- 
fectually endeavoring  to  pacify  the  disputants.  A  rigid  disci- 
plinarian, Lord  Ulswater  allowed  not  even  party  feeling,  roused 
as  it  was,  to  conquer  professional  habits.  He  called  off  the  sol- 
dier, and  the  man  with  whom  the  latter  had  been  engaged  im- 
mediately came  up  to  Lord  Ulswater,  with  a  step  as  haughty 
as  his  own.  The  third  person,  who  had  attempted  the  peace- 
maker, followed  him. 

"  I  presume,  sir,"  said  he,  "  that  you  are  an  officer  of  thi^ 
man's  regiment."  .,,'..: 

"  I  am  the  commanding  officer,  sir,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  very 
little  relishing  the  air  and  tone  of  the  person  who  addressed  him. 

'"Then,"  answered  the  man  (who  was,  indeed,  no  other  than 
Wolfe,  who,  having  returned  to  W- with  Mordaunt,  had  al- 
ready succeeded  in  embroiling  himself  in  a  dispute) — "then, 
sir,  I  look  to  you  for  his  punishment,  and  my  redress";  and 
Wolfe  proceeded,  in  his  own  exaggerated  language,  to  detail  a 
very  reasonable  cause  of  complaint.  The  fact  was,  that  Wolfe, 
meeting  one  of  his  compatriots,  and  conversing  with  him  some- 
what loudly,  had  uttered  some  words  which  attracted  the 
spleen  of  the  soldier,  who  was  reeling  home  very  comfortably 
intoxicated  ;  and  the  soldier  had  most  assuredly,  indulged  in  a 
copious  abuse  of  the  d — d  rebel,  who  could  hot  walk  Xhti 
streets -without  chattering  sedition.  '  • 


THE   DISOWNED.  365 

Wolfe's  friend  confirmed  the  statement. 

The  trooper  attempted  to  justify  himself ;  but  Lord  Ulswater 
saw  his  intoxication  in  an  instant,  and,  secretly  vexed  that  the 
complaint  was  not  on  the  other  side,  ordered  the  soldier  to  his 
quarters,  with  a  brief  but  sure  threat  of  punishment  on  the 
morrow.  Not  willing,  however,  to  part  with  the  "d — d  rebel," 
on  terms  so  flattering  to  the  latter.  Lord  Ulswater,  turning  to 
Wolfe,  with  a  severe  and  angry  air,  said : 

"  As  for  you,  fellow,  I  believe  the  whole  fault  was  on  your 
side ;  and  if  you  dare  give  vent  again  to  your  disaffected  rav- 
ings, I  shall  have  you  sent  to  prison,  to  tame  your  rank  blood 
upon  bread  and  water.  Begone,  and  think  yourself  fortunate  to 
escape  now  ! " 

The  fierce  spirit  of  Wolfe  was  in  arms  on  the  instant — and 
his  reply,  in  subjecting  him  to  Lord  Ulswater's  threat,  might  at 
least  have  prevented  his  enlightening  the  public  on  the  morrow, 
had  not  his  friend,  a  peaceable,  prudent  man,  seized  him  by 
the  arm,  and  whispered — "What  are  you  about? — Consider  for 
what  you  are  here — another  word  may  rob  the  assembly  of 
your  presence.  A  man  bent  on  a  public  cause  must  not,  on  the 
eve  of  its  trial,  enlist  in  a  private  quarrel." 

"  True,  my  friend,  true,"  said  Wolfe,  swallowing  his  rage,  and 
eyeing  Lord  Ulswater's  retreating  figure  with  a  menacing  look; 
"but  the  time  may  yet  come  when  I  shall  have  license  to  retali- 
ate on  the  upstart." 

"So  be  it,"  quoth  the  ether — "he  is  our  bitterest  enemy. 

You  know,   perhaps,  that   he    is   Lord  Ulswater,  of  the 

regiment  ?  it  has  been  at  his  instigation  that  the  magistrates  pro?- 
posed  to  disturb  the  meeting.  He  has  been  known  publicly  to 
say  that  all  who  attended  the  assembly  ought  to  be  given  up  to 
the  swords  of  his  troopers." 

"  The  butchering  dastard  ! — to  dream  even  of  attacking  un- 
armed men  ;  but  enough  of  him — I  must  tarry  yet  in  the  street 
to  hear  what  success  our  intercessor  has  obtained."  And  as 
Wolfe  passed  the  house  in  which  the  magisterial  conclave  sat, 
Mordaunt  came  out  and  accosted  him. 

"  You  have  sworn  to  me  that  your  purpose  is  peaceable," 
said  Mordaunt. 

"  Unquestionably,"  answered  Wolfe.  ♦    ■   ,  ■ 

"And  you  will  pledge  yourself  that  no  disturbai>ce,  that  can 
either  be  effected,  or  counteracted,  by  yourself  and  friends,  shall 
take  place  ? " 

"  I  will." 

"  Enough  !  "  answered  Mordaunt.     "  Remember  that  if  you 


366  THE    DISOWMED. 

commit  the  least  act  that  can  be  thought  dangerous,  I  may  nol 
be  able  to  preserve  you  from  the  military.  As  it  is,  your  meet- 
ing will  be  unopposed." 

Contrary  to  Lord  Ulswater's  prediction,  the  meeting  went 
off  as  quietly  as  an  elderly  maiden's  tea-party.  The  speakers, 
even  Wolfe,  not  only  took  especial  pains  to  recommend  order 
and  peace,  but  avoided  for  the  most  part  all  inflammatory  en- 
largement upon  the  grievances  of  which  they  complained.  And 
the  sage  foreboders  of  evil,  who  had  locked  up  their  silver 
spoons,  and 'shaken  their  heads  very  wisely  for  the  last  week, 
had  the  agreeable  mortification  of  observing  rather  an  appear- 
ance of  good-humor  upon  the  countenances  of  the  multitude 
than  that  ferocious  determination  against  the  lives  and  limbs 
of  the  well-affected  which  they  had  so  sorrowfully  anticipated. 

As  Mordaunt  (who  had  been  present  during  the  whole  time 
of  the  meeting)  mounted  his  horse  and  quitted  the  ground, 
Lord  Ulswater,  having  just  left  his  quarters,  where  he  had  been 
all  day  in  expectation  of  some  violent  act  of  the  orators  or  the 
mob,  demanding  his  military  services,  caught  sight  of  him  ; 
with  a  sudden  recollection  of  his  own  passionate  threat.  There 
had  been  nothing  in  Mordaunt's  words  which  would,  in  our 
times,  have  justified  a  challenge;  but  in  that  day  duels  were 
fought  upon  the  slightest  provocation.  Lord  Ulswater  there- 
fore rode  up  at  once  to  a  gentleman  with  whom  he 
had  some  intimate  acquaintance,  and  briefly  saying  that  he  had 
been  insulted,  both  as  an  officer  and  gentleman,  by  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt, requested  his  friend  to  call  upon  that  gentleman  and  de- 
mand satisfaction. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  "I  have  the  misfortune 
to  be  unavoidably  engaged.  The  next  day  you  can  appoint 
place  and  time  of  meeting." 

*'I  must  first  see  the  gentleman  to  whom  Mr.  Mordaunt  may 
refer  me,"  said  the  friend  prudently  ;  "and  perhaps  your  honor 
may  be  satisfied  without  any  hostile  meeting  at  all." 

"I  think  not,"  said  Lord  Ulswater  carelessly,  as  he  rode 
away,  "for  Mr.  Mordaunt  is  a  gentleman, and  gentlemen  never 
apologize." 

Wolfe  was  standing  unobserved  near  Lord  Ulswater  while 
the  latter  thus  instructed  his  proposed  second.  "  Man  of 
blood,"  muttered  the  republican  ;  "  with  homicide  thy  code  of 
honor,  and  massacre  thine  interpretation  of  law,  by  violence 
wouldst  thou  rule,  and  by  violence  mayst  thou  perish !  " 


fttE  DISOWNED.  J67 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

"  Jam  te  premet  nox,  fabulseque  Manes 
Et  domus  exilis  Plutonia."* — HoR. 

The  morning  was  dull  and  heavy,  as  Lord  Ulswater  mounted 
his  horse,  and,  unattended,  took  his  way  towards  Westborough 
Park.  His  manner  was  unusually  thoughtful  and  absent  ;  per- 
haps two  affairs  upon  his  hands,  either  of  which  seemed  likely 
to  end  in  bloodshed,  were  sufficient  to  bring  reflection  even 
to  the  mind  of  a  cavalry  officer. 

He  had  scarcely  got  out  of  the  town  before  he  was  overtaken 
by  our  worthy  friend  Mr.  Glumford.  As  he  had  been  a  firm 
ally  of  Lord  Ulswater  in  the  contest  respecting  the  meeting,  so, 
when  he  joined  and  saluted  that  nobleman.  Lord  Ulswater, 
mindful  of  past  services,  returned  his  greeting  with  an  air 
rather  of  condescension  than  hauteur.  To  say  truth,  his  lord- 
ship was  never  very  fond  of  utter  loneliness,  and  the  respectful 
bearing  of  Glumford,  joined  to  that  mutual  congeniality  which 
sympathy  in  political  views  always  occasions,  made  him  more 
pleased  with  the  society  than  shocked  vvith  the  intrusion  of  the 
squire  ;  so  that  when  Glumford  said,  "  If  your  lordship's  way 
lies  along  this  road  for  the  next  five  or  six  miles,  perhaps  you 
will  allow  me  the  honor  of  accompanying  you,"  Lord  Ulswater 
graciously  signified  his  consent  to  the  proposal,  and  carelessly 
mentioning  that  he  was  going  to  Westborough  Park,  slid  into 
that  conversation  with  his  new  companion  which  the  meeting 
and  its  actors  afforded. 

Turn  we  for  an  instant  to  Clarence.  At  the  appointed  hour  he 
had  arrived  at  Westborough  Park,  and,  bidding  his  companion, 
the  trusty  Wardour,  remain  within  the  chaise  which  had  con- 
veyed them,  he  was  ushered,  with  a  trembling  heart,  but  a  mien 
erect  and  self-composed,  into  Lady  Westborough's  presence  ; 
the  marchioness  was  alone. 

'"  I  am  sensible,  sir,"  said  she,  with  a  little  embarrassment, 
"  that  it  is  not  exactly  becoming  to  my  station  and  circum- 
stances to  suffer  a  meeting  of  the  present  nature  between  Lord 
Ulswater  and  yourself  to  be  held  within  this  house  ;  but  I  could 
not  resist  the  request  of  Lord  Ulswater,  conscious,  from  his 
character,  that  it  could  contain  nothing  detrimental  to  the — to 
the  consideration  and  delicacy  due  to  Lady  Flora  Ardenne," 

Clarence  bowed.     "  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  he,  "I 

*  This  very  hour  Death  shall   overcome  thee,  and  the  fabled  Manes,  and  the  shadowy 
Plutonian  realms  receive  thee. 


j6S  THE   DISOWNED. 

feel  confident  that  Lady  Westborough  will  not  repent  of  her 
condescension." 

Tliere  was  a  pause. 

"  It  is  singular,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  looking  to  the 
clock  upon  an  opposite  table,  "that  Lord  Ulswater  is  not  yet 
arrived." 

"  It  is,"  said  Clarence,  scarcely  conscious  of  liis  words,  and 
wondering  whether  Lady  Flora  would  deign  to  appear. 

Another  pause.  Lady  Westborough  felt  the  awkwardness  of 
her  situation. 

Clarence  made  an  effort  to  recover  himself. 

"  I  do  not  see,"  said  he,  *'  the  necessity  of  delaying  the  ex- 
planation I  have  to  offer  to  your  ladyship  till  my  Lord  Uls- 
water deems  it  suitable  to  appear.  "  Allow  me  at  once  to  enter 
upon  a  history,  told  in  a  few  words,  and  easily  proved." 

"  Stay,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  struggling  with  her  curi- 
osity ;  "it  is  due  to  one  who  has  stood  in  so  peculiar  a  situa- 
tion in  our  family  to  wait  yet  a  little  longer  for  his  coming. 
We  will,  therefore,  till  the  hour  is  completed,  postpone  the 
object  of  our  meeting." 

Clarence  again  bowed,  and  was  silent.  Another  and  alonger 
pause  ensued  ;  it  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  the  clock  strik- 
ing— the  hour  was  completed. 

*'  Now,"  —  began  Clarence  —  when  he  was  interrupted  by  a 
sudden  and  violent  commotion  in  the  hall.  Above  all  was 
heard  a  loud  and  piercing  cry,  in  which  Clarence  recognized 
the  voice  of  the  old  steward.  He  rose  abruptly,  and  stood 
motionless  and  aghast  :  his  eyes  met  those  of  Lady  West- 
borough, who,  pale  and  agitated,  lost  for  the  moment  all  her 
habitual  self-command.  The  sound  increased  :  Clarence 
rushed  from  the  room  into  the  hall  ;  the  open  door  of  the 
apartment  revealed  to  Lady  Westborough,  as  to  him,  a  sight 
which  allowed  her  no  further  time  for  hesitation.  She  hurried 
after  Clarence  into  the  hall,  gave  one  look,  uttered  one  shriek 
of  horror,  and  fainted. 


THE   DISOWNED.  369 


CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 

Iden. — But  thou  wilt  brave  me  in  these  saucy  terms. 
Cade. — Brave  thee  !  ay ,  by  the  best  blood  that  ever  was  broached, 
and  beard  thee  too. — Shakspeare. 

"  You  see,  ray  lord,"  said  Mr.  Glumford  to  Lord  Ulswater, 
as  they  rode  slowly  on,  "that  as  long  as  those  rebellious 
scoundrels  are  indulged  in  their  spoutings  and  meetings, 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  that — that  there  will  be  no  bearing 
them." 

"Very  judiciously  remarked,  sir,"  replied  Lord  Ulswater. 
"  I  wish  all  gentlemen  of  birth  and  consideration  viewed  the 
question  in  the  same  calm,  dispassionate,  and  profound  light 
that  you  do.  Would  to  heaven  it  were  left  to  me  to  clear  the 
country  of  these  mutinous  and  dangerous  rascals — I  would 
make  speedy  and  sure  work  of  it." 

"  I  am  certain  you  would,  my  lord  —  I  am  certain  you  would. 
It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  pompous  fellow,  Mordaunt,  inter- 
fered yesterday,  with  his  moderation,  and  policy,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing — so  foolish,  you  know,  my  lord  —  mere  theory, 
and  romance,  and  that  sort  of  thing  :  we  should  have  had  it 
all  our  own  way,  if  he  had  not." 

Lord  Ulswater  played  with  his  riding-whip,  but  did  not 
reply.     Mr.  Glumford  continued  :  ;  ,, 

"  Pray,  my  lord,  did  your  lordship  see  what  an  ugly,  ill- 
dressed  set  of  dogs  those  meeiingers  were  —  that  Wolfe,  above 
all?  Oh,  he's  a  horrid-looking  fellow.  By-the-by,  he  left 
the  town  this  very  morning ;  I  saw  him  take  leave  of  his 
freinds  in  the  street  just  before  I  set  out.  He  is  going  to  some 
other  meeting  —  on  foot,  too.  Only  think  of  the  folly  of  talk- 
ing about  the  policy,  and  prudence,  and  humanity,  of  sparing 
such  a  pitiful  poor  fellow  as  that  — can't  afford  a  chaise,  or  a 
stage-coach  even,  my  lord  —  positively  can't." 

"You  see  the  matter  exactly  in  its  true  light,  Mr.  Glumford," 
said  his  lordship,  patting  his  fine  horse,  which  was  somewhat 
impatient  of  the  slow  pace  of  its  companion. 

"  A  very  beautiful  animal  of  your  lordship's,"  said  Mr. 
Glumford,  spurring  his  own  horse  —  a  heavy,  dull  quadruped, 
with  an  obstinate  ill-set  tail,  a  low  shoulder,  and  a  Roman 
nose.  "  I  am  very  partial  to  horses  myself,  and  love  a  fine 
horse  as  well  as  anybody." 

Lord  Ulswater  cast  a  glance  at  his  companion's  steed,  and 
seeing  nothing  in  its  qualities  to  justify  this  assertion  of  at- 


37<^  I'HE   DISOWNED. 

tachment  to  fine  horses,  was  silent  ;  Lord  Ulswater  never  flat- 
tered even  his  mistress,  much  less  Mr.  Glumford. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  lord,"  continued  Mr.  Glumford,  "what 
a  bargain  this  horse  was";  and  the  squire  proceeded,  much 
to  Lord  Ulswater's  discontent,  to  detail  the  history  oi  his  craft 
in  making  the  said  bargain. 

The  riders  were  now  entering  a  part  of  the  road,  a  little 
more  than  two  miles  from  Westborough  Park,  in  which  the 
features  of  the  neighboring  country  took  a  bolder  and  ruder 
aspect  than  they  had  hitherto  worn.  On  one  side  of  the  road, 
the  view  opened  upon  a  descent  of  considerable  depth,  and 
the  dull  sun  looked  drearily  over  a  valley  in  which  large  fallow 
fields,  a  distant  and  solitary  spire,  and  a  few  stinted  and  with- 
ering trees,  formed  the  chief  characteristics.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  road  a  narrow  foot-path  was  separated  from  the 
highway  by  occasional  posts  ;  and  on  this  path  Lord  Ulswater 
—  (how  the  minute  and  daily  occurrences  of  life  show  the 
grand  pervading  principles  of  character)  —  was,  at  the  time  we 
refer  to,  riding,  in  preference  to  the  established  thoroughfare  for 
equestrian  and  aurigal  travellers.  The  side  of  this  path  farth- 
est from  the  road  was  bordered  by  a  steep  declivity  of  stony 
and  gravelly  earth,  which  almost  deserved  the  dignified  appel- 
lation of  a  precipice  ;  and  it  was  with  no  small  exertion  of 
dexterous  horsemanship  that  Lord  Ulswater  kept  his  spirited 
and  susceptible  steed  upon  the  narrow  and  somewhat  perilous 
path,  in  spite  of  its  frequent  starts  at  the  rugged  descent  be- 
low. 

"  I  think,  my  lord,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,"  said  Mr. 
Glumford,  having  just  finished  the  narration  of  his  bargain, 
*'  that  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  take  the  high  road  just  at 
present ;  for  the  descent  from  the  foot-path  is  steep  and 
abrupt,  and  deuced  crumbling  ;  so  that  if  your  lordship's 
horse  shied  or  took  a  wrong  step,  it  might  be  attended  with 
Unpleasant  consequences — a  fall,  or  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  who,  like 
most  proud  men,  conceived  advice  an  insult  :  "  but  I  imagine 
myself  capable  of  guiding  my  horse,  at  least  upon  a  road  so 
excellent  as  this." 

**  Certainly,  my  lord,  certainly  ;  I  beg  your  pardon  :  but  — 
bless  me,  who  is  that  tall  fellow  in  black,  talking  to  himself 
yonder,  my  lord?  The  turn  of  the  road  hides  him  from  you 
just  at  present ;  but  I  see  him  well.  Ha-ha  f  what  gestures  he 
uses  !  I  dare  say  he  is  one  of  the  petitioners,  and — yes,  my 
lord,  by  Jupiter,  it  is  Wolfe  himself !     You  Had  better  (excuse 


THE    DISOWNED.  371 

me,  my  lord)  come  down  from  the  foot-path  —  it  is  not  wide 
enough  for  two  people  —  and  Wolfe,  I  dare  say,  a  d — d  rascal, 
would  not  get  out  of  the  way  for  the  devil  himself  !  He's  a 
nasty,  black,  fierce-looking  fellow  ;  I  would  not  for  something 
meet  him  in  a  dark  night,  or  that  sort  of  thing !  " 

"  I  do  not  exactly  understand,  Mr.  Glumford,"  returned 
Lord  Ulswater,  with  a  supercilious  glance  at  that  gentleman, 
"what  peculiarities  of  temper  you  are  pleased  to  impute  to 
me,  or  from  what  you  deduce  the  supposition  that  I  shall 
move  out  of  my  way  for  a  person  like  Mr.  Woolt,  or  Wolfe,  or 
whatever  be  his  name." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ray  lord,  I  am  sure,"  answered  Glum- 
ford ;  "  of  course  your  lordship  knows  best,  and  if  the  rogae 
is  impertinent,  why,  I'm  a  magistrate,  and  will  commit  him  ; 
though,  to  be  sure,"  continued  our  righteous  Daniel,  in  a 
lower  key,  "  he  has  a  right  to  walk  upon  the  foot-path  without 
being  ridden  over,  or  that  sort  of  thing." 

The  equestrians  were  now  very  near  Wolfe,  who  turning 
hastily  round,  perceived,  and  immediately  recognized  Lord 
Ulswater.  "  Ah-ha,"  muttered  he  to  himself,  "  here  comes  the 
insolent  thirster  for  blood,  grudging  wj,  seemingly,  even  the 
meagre  comfort  of  the  path  which  his  horse's  hoofs  are  break- 
ing up — yet,  thank  Heaven,"  added  the  republican,  looking 
with  a  stern  satisfaction  at  the  narrowness  of  the  footing,  "  he 
cannot  very  well  pass  me,  and  the  free  lion  does  not  move  out 
of  his  way  for  such  pampered  kine  as  those  to  which  this 
creature  belongs." 

Actuated  by  tiiis  thought,  Wolfe  almost  insensibly  moved  en- 
tirely into  the  middle  of  the  path,  so  that  what  with  the  posts 
on  one  side,  and  the  abrupt  and  undefended  precipice,  if  we 
may  so  call  it,  on  the  other,  it  was  quite  impossible  for  any 
horseman  to  pass  the  republican,  unless  over  his  body. 

Lord  Ulswater  marked  the  motion,  and  did  not  want  pene- 
tration to  perceive  the  cause.  Glad  of  an  opix)rtunity  to 
wreak  some  portion  of  his  irritation  against  a  member  of  a 
body  so  offensive  to  his  mind,  and  which  had  the  day  before 
obtained  a  sort  of  triumph  over  his  exertions  against  them  ; 
and  rendered  obstinate  in  his  intention  by  the  pique  he  had 
felt  at  Glumford's  caution,  Lord  Ulswater,  tightening  his  rein, 
and  humming,  with  apparent  indifference,  a  popular  tune, con- 
tinued his  progress  till  he  was  within  a  foot  of  the  republican. 
Then,  checking  his  horse  for  a  moment,  he  called,  in  a  tone  of 
quiet  arrogance,  to  Wolfe  to  withdraw  himself  on  one  side  till 
be  had  passed. 


372  THE    DISOWNED. 

The  fierce  blood  of  the  republican,  which  the  least  breath  of 
oppression  sufficed  to  kindle,  and  which  yet  boiled  with  the 
remembrance  of  Lord  Ulswater's  threat  to  him  two  nights  be- 
fore, was  on  fire  at  this  command.  He  stopped  short,  and 
turning  half  round,  stood  erect  in  the  strength  and  power  of 
his  singularly  tall  and  not  ungraceful  form.  "  Poor  and  proud 
fool,"  said  he,  with  a  voice  of  most  biting  scorn,  and  fixing  an 
eye  eloquent  of  ire  and  menaced  danger  upon  the  calmly  con- 
temptuous countenance  of  the  patrician — "  Poor  and  proud 
fool,  do  you  think  that  your  privileges  have  already  reached  so 
pleasant  a  pitch  that  you  may  ride  over  men  like  dust  ?  Off, 
fool — the  basest  peasant  in  England,  degraded  as  he  is,  would 
resist,  while  he  ridiculed  your  arrogance." 

Without  deigning  any  reply,  Lord  Ulswater  spurred  his 
horse  ;  the  spirited  animal  bounded  forward,  almost  on  the  very 
person  of  the  obstructor  of  the  path  ;  with  uncommon  agility 
Wolfe  drew  aside  from  the  danger,  seized,  with  a  powerful 
grasp,  the  bridle,  and  abruptly  arresting  the  horse,  backed  it 
fearfully  towards  the  descent.  Enraged  beyond  all  presence 
of  mind,  the  fated  nobleman,  raising  his  whip,  struck  violently 
at  the  republican.  The  latter,  as  he  felt  the  blow,  uttered  a 
single  shout  of  such  ferocity  that  it  curdled  the  timorous  blood 
of  Glumford,  and  with  a  giant  and  iron  hand  he  backed  the 
horse  several  paces  down  the  precipice.  The  treacherous  earth 
crumbled  beneath  the  weight,  and  Lord  Ulswater,  spurring  his 
steed  violently  at  the  same  instant  that  Wolfe  so  sharply  and 
strongly  curbed  it,  the  affrighted  animal  reared  violently, 
forced  the  rein  from  Wolfe,  stood  erect  for  a  moment  of  hor- 
ror to  the  spectator,  and  then,  as  its  footing  and  balance  alike 
failed  it,  fell  backward  and  rolled  over  and  over  its  unfortunate 
and  helpless  rider. 

"Good  Heavens!"  cried  Glumford,  who  had  sat  quietly 
upon  his  dozing  horse,  watching  the  result  of  the  dispute — 
*'  what  have  you  done  ?  you  have  killed  his  lordship — posi- 
tively killed  him — and  his  horse,  too,  I  dare  say.  You  shall 
be  hanged  for  this,  sir,  as  sure  as  I  am  a  magistrate  and  that 
sort  of  thing." 

Unheeding  this  denunciation,  Wolfe  had  made  to  the  spot 
where  rider  and  horse  lay  blent  together  at  the  foot  of  the  de- 
scent ;  and  assisting  the  latter  to  rise,  bent  down  to  examine 
the  real  effect  of  his  violence.  "  Methinks,"  said  he,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  hueless,  but  still  defying,  features  of  the 
horseman — "  methinks  I  have  seen  that  face  years  before — but 
where  ?  perhaps  my  dreams  have  foretold  me  this." 


THE   DISOWNED,  373 

Lord  Ulswater  was  utterly  senseless ;  and  as  Wolfe  raised 
him,  he  saw  that  the  right  side  of  the  head  was  covered  with 
blood,  and  that  one  arm  seemed  crushed  and  broken.  Mean- 
while a  carriage  had  appeared — was  hailed  by  Glumford — 
stopped  ;  and,  on  being  informed  of  the  circumstance,  and  the 
rank  of  the  sufferer,  the  traveller,  a  single  gentleman,  de- 
scended, assisted  to  raise  the  unhappy  nobleman — placed  him 
in  the  carriage,  and,  obeying  Glumford's  instructions,  pro- 
ceeded slowly  to  Westborough  Park. 

"  But  the  ruffian — the  rebel — the  murderer !  "  said  Mr. 
Glumford,  both  querulously  and  inquiringly,  locking  towards 
Wolfe,  who,  without  having  attempted  to  assist  his  victim, 
stood  aloof  with  arms  folded,  and  an  expression  of  sated 
ferocity  upon  his  speaking  features. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  him,"  quoth  the  traveller,  stepping  into  his  car- 
riage, in  order  to  support  the  mangled  man — "  You,  sir,  and 
my  valet  can  bring  him  along  with  you,  or  take  him  to  the 
next  town,  or  do,  in  short,  with  him  just  as  you  please,  only  be 
sure  he  does  not  escape — drive  on,  postboy,  very  gently." 
And  poor  Mr.  Glumford  found  the  muscular  form  of  the  stern 
Wolfe  consigned  to  the  sole  care  of  himself  and  a  very  diminu- 
tive man  in  pea-green  silk  stockings,  who,  however  excellently 
well  he  miglu  perform  the  office  of  valet,  was  certainly  by  no 
means  calculated  in  physical  powers  for  the  detention  of  a 
criminal. 

Wolfe  saved  the  pair  a  world  of  trouble  and  anxiety. 

"Sir,"  said  he  gravely,  turning  to  Glumford,  "you  beheld 
the  affray,  and  whatever  its  consequences,  will  do  me  the 
common  justice  of  witnessing  as  to  the  fact  of  the  first 
aggressor ;  it  will,  however,  be  satisfactory  to  both  of  us  to 
seize  the  earliest  opportunity  of  putting  the  matter  upon  a 

legal  footing,  and  I  shall,  therefore,  return  to  W ,  to  which 

town  you  will  doubtless  accompany  mo." 

"With  all  my  heart !  "  cried  Mr.  Glumford,  feeling  as  if  a 
mountain  of  responsibility  were  taken  from  his  breast.  "  And 
1  wish  to  Heaven  you  may  be  transported  instead  of  hanged." 


374  THE   DISOWNED, 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

•*  But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew. 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew." — Byron. 

The  light  broke  partiaDy  through  the  half-closed  shutters  of 
the  room  in  which  lay  Lord  Ulswater — who,  awakened  to  sense 
and  pain  by  the  motion  of  the  carriage,  had  now  relapsed  into 
insensibility.  By  tlie  side  of  the  sofa  pn  which  he  was  laid, 
knelt  Clarence,  bathing  one  hand  with  tears  violent  and  fast ; 
on  the  opposite  side  leant  over,  with  bald  front,  and  an  express- 
ion of  mingled  fear  and  sorrow  upon  his  intent  countenance,  the 
old  steward  ;  while,  at  a  little  distance.  Lord  Westborough,  who 
had  been  wheeled  into  the  room,  sat  mute  in  his  chair,  aghast 
with  bewildennent  and  horror,  and  counting  every  moment  to 
the  arrival  of  the  surgeon,  who  had  been  sent  for.  The  stranger 
to  whom  the  carriage  belonged  stood  by  the  window,  detailing, 
in  a  low  voice,  to  the  chaplain  of  the  house,  what  particulars  of 
the  occurrence  he  was  acquainted  with,  Avhile  the  youngest 
scion  of  the  family,  a  boy  of  about  ten  years,  and  who,  in  the 
general  confusion,  had  thrust  himself  unnoticed  into  the  room, 
stood  close  to  the  pair,  with  open  mouth  and  thirsting  ears,  and 
a  fac^  on  which  childish  interest  at  a  fearful  tale  was  strongly 
blent  with  the  more  absorbed  feeling  of  terror  at  the  truth. 

Slowly  Lord  Ulswater  opened  his  eyes — they  rested  upon 
Clarence. 

"  My  brother — my  brother  !  "  cried  Clarence,  in  a  voice  of 
powerful  anguish — "is  it  thus — tluis  that  you  have  come  hither 
to — "  He  stopped  in  the  gushing  fulness  of  his  heart.  Ex- 
tricating from  Clarence  the  only  liand  he  was  able  to  use,  Lord 
Ulswater  raised  it  to  his  brow,  as  if  in  the  effort  to  clear  remem- 
brance ;  and  then,  turning  to  Wardour,  seemed  to  ask  the  truth 
of  Clarence's  claim — at  least  so  the  old  man  interpreted  the 
meaning  of  his  eye,  and  the  faint  and  scarce  intelligible  words 
which  broke  from  his  lips. 

**lt  is — it  is,  my  honored  lord,"  cried  he,  struggling  with  his 
emotion — "it  is  your  brother — your  lost  brother,  Clinton  L'Es- 
trange.  And  as  he  said  these  words,  Clarence  felt  the  damp 
chill  hand  of  his  brother  press  his  own,  and  knew  by  that 
pressure  and  the  smile — kind,  though  brief  from  exceeding  pain 
• — with  which  the  ill-fated  nobleman  looked  upon  him,  that 
the  claim  long  unknown  was  at  last  acknowledged,  and  the 
ties  long  broken  united,  though  in  death. 

The  surgeon  arrived — the  room  was  cleared  of  all  but  Clar- 


tH£   DISOWNED.  57^ 

enCe — the  first  examination  was  sufficient.  Unaware  of  Clar- 
ence's close  relationship  to  the  sufferer,  the  surgeon  took  him 
aside — "A  very  painful  operation,"  said  he,  "  might  be  per- 
formed, but  it  would  only  torture,  in  vain,  the  last  moments  of 
the  patient ;  no  human  skill  can  save,  or  even  protract  his 
life." 

The  doomed  man  who,  though  in  great  pain,  was  still  sensi- 
ble, stirred.  His  brother  flew  towards  him.  "  Flora,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  let  me  see  her,  I  implore." 

Curbing,  as  much  as  he  was  able,  his  emotion,  and  conquer- 
ing his  reluctance  to  leave  the  sufferer  even  for  a  moment, 
Clarence  flew  in  search  of  Lady  Flora.  He  found  her  :  in  rapid 
and  hasty  words,  he  signified  the  wish  of  the  dying  man,  and 
hurried  her,  confused,  trembling,  and  scarce  conscious  of  the 
melancholy  scene  she  was  about  to  witness,  to  the  side  of  her 
affianced  bridegroom, 

I  have  been  by  the  death-beds  of  many  men,  and  I  have 
noted  tiiat  shortly  before  death,  as  the  frame  grows  weaker  and 
weaker,  the  fiercer  passions  yield  to  those  feelings  better  har- 
monizing with  the  awfulness  of  the  hour.  Thoughts  soft  and 
tender,  which  seemed  little  to  belong  to  the  character  in  the 
health  and  vigor  of  former  years,  obtain  then  an  empire,  brief, 
indeed,  but  utter  for  the  time  they  last — and  this  is  the  more 
impressive,  because  (as  in  the  present  instance  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  portray)  in  the  moments  which  succeed  and  make 
the  very  latest  of  life,  the  ruling  passion,  suppressed  for  an 
interval  by  such  gentler  feelings,  sometimes  again  returns  to  take 
its  final  triumph  over  that  frail  clay  which,  through  existence, 
it  has  swayed,  agitated,  and  moulded  like  wax  unto  its  will. 

When  Lord  Uls water  saw  Flora  approach  and  bend  weep- 
ingly  over  him,  a  momentary  softness  stole  over  his  face.  Tak- 
ing her  hand,  he  extended  it  towards  Clarence ;  and,  turning 
to  the  latter,  faltered  out — "  Let  this — my— brother — atone— 
for — "  apparently  unable  to  finish  the  sentence,  he  then  relaxed 
his  hold  and  sunk  upon  the  pillow  :  and  so  still,  so  apparently 
breathless,  did  he  remain  for  several  minutes,  that  they  thought 
the  latest  agony  was  over. 

As  yielding  to  this  impression,  Clarence  was  about  to  with- 
draw the  scarce  conscious  Flora  from  the  chamber,  words  less 
tremulous  and  indistinct  than  aught  which  he  had  yet  uttered, 
broke  from  Lord  Ulswater's  lips.  Clarence  hastened  to  him  ; 
and,  bending  over  his  countenance,  saw  that,  even  through  the 
rapid  changes  and  shades  of  death,  it  darkened  with  the  pecu- 
liar characteristics  of  the  unreleased  soul  within  :  the  brow  was 


37<5  TilE  DISOWNED. 

knit  into  more  than  its  wonted  sternness  and  pride  ;  and  in  the 
eye,  which  glared  upon  the  opposite  wall,  the  light  of  the  waning 
life  broke  into  a  momentary  blaze — that  flash,  so  rapid  and  so 
evanescent,  before  the  air  drinks  in  the  last  spark  of  the  being 
it  has  animated,  and  night — the  starless  and  eternal — falls  over 
the  extinguished  lamp  !  The  hand  of  the  right  arm  (which  was 
that  unshattered  by  the  fall)  was  clenched  and  raised  ;  but, 
when  the  words  which  came  upon  Clarence's  ear  had  ceased,  it 
fell  heavily  by  his  side,  like  a  clod  of  that  clay  which  it  had 
then  become.  In  those  words,  it  seemed  as  if,  in  the  confused 
delirium  of  passing  existence,  the  brave  soldier  mingled  some 
dim  and  bewildered  recollection  of  former  battles,  with  that  of 
his  last  most  fatal,  though  most  ignoble  strife. 

"  Down,  down  with  them,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth, 
though  in  a  tone  startlingly  deep  and  audible  ;  "down  with  them. 
No  quarter  to  the  infidels — strike  for  England  and  Effingham. 
Ha  !— who  strives  for  flight  there  ! — kill  him — no  mercy,  I  say 
— none  ! — there — there — I  have  despatched  him — ha  ! — ha  ! — 
What,  still  alive  ? — off,  slave,  off  ! — Oh,  slain — slain  in  a  ditch, 
by  a  base-born  hind — oh — bitter — bitter — bitter  !  "  And  with 
these  words,  of  which  the  last,  from  their  piercing  anguish  and 
keen  despair,  made  a  dread  contrast  with  the  fire  and  defiance 
of  the  first,  the  jaw  fell — the  flashing  and  fierce  eye  glazed  and 
set — and  all  of  the  haughty  and  bold  patrician  which  the  earth 
retained  was — dust ! 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

"II  n'est  jamais  permis  de  deteriorer  une  ame  humaine  pour  I'avantage 
des  autres,  ni  de  faire  nn  scelerat  pour  le  service  des  honnetes  gens*. — 
Rousseau. 

As  the  reader  approaches  the  termination  of  this  narrative, 
and  looks  back  upon  the  many  scenes  he  has  passed,  perhaps, 
in  the  mimic  representation  of  human  life,  he  may  find  no  un- 
faithful resemblance  to  the  true. 

As,  amongst  the  crowd  of  characters  jostled  against  each 
other  in  their  course,  some  drop  off  at  the  first,  the  second,  or 
the  third  stage,  and  leave  a  few  only  continuing  to  the  last, 
while  Fate  chooses  her  agents  and  survivors  among  those  whom 
the  by-stander,  perchance,  least  noticed  as  the  objects  of  her 
selection — and  they  who,  haply,  seemed  to  him  at  first  among 
the  most  conspicuous  as  characters,  sink,  some  abruptly,  some 

♦  It  is  not  permitted  us  t  o  degrade  one  single  soul,  for  the  sake  of  conferring  advantage 
•n  others,  nor  to  make  a  rogue,  for  the  good  of  the  honest. 


THE   DISOWNED.  3^7 

gradually,  into  actors  of  the  least  importance  in  events  ;  as  the 
reader  notes  the  same  passion,  in  different  strata,  producing 
the  most  opposite  qualities,  and  gathers  from  that  notice  some 
estimate  of  the  vast  perplexity  in  the  code  of  morals,  deemed 
by  the  shallow  so  plain  a  science,  when  he  finds  that  a  similar 
and  single  feeling  will  produce  both  the  virtue  we  love  and  the 
vice  we  detest,  the  magnanimity  we  admire  and  the  meanness 
we  despise  ;  as  the  feeble  hands  of  the  author  force  into  con- 
trast ignorance  and  wisdom,  the  affectation  of  philosophy  and 
its  true  essence,  coarseness,  and  refinement,  the  lowest  vulgar- 
ity of  sentiment  with  an  exaltation  of  feeling  approaching  to 
morbidity,  the  reality  of  virtue  with  the  counterfeit,  the  glory  of 
the  Divinity  with  the  hideousness  of  the  Idol,  sorrow  and  eager 
joy,  marriage  and  death,  tears  and  their  young  successors, 
smiles ;  as  all,  blent  together,  these  varieties  of  life  form  a 
single  yet  many-colored  web,  leaving  us  to  doubt  whether  in 
fortune,  the  bright  hue  or  the  dark — in  character,  the  base  ma- 
terial or  the  rich,  predominate — the  workman  of  the  web  could 
almost  reconcile  himself  to  his  glaring  and  great  deficiency  in 
art,  by  the  fond  persuasion  that  he  has,  at  least  in  his  choice  of 
tint  and  texture,  caught  something  of  the  likeness  of  Nature  : 
but  he  knows,  to  the  abasement  of  his  vanity,  that  these  enu- 
merated particulars  of  resemblance  to  life  are  common  to  all, 
even  to  the  most  unskilful  of  his  brethren  ;  and  it  is  not  the 
mere  act  of  copying  a  true  original,  but  the  rare  circumstance 
of  force  and  accuracy  in  the  copy,  which  can  alone  constitute 
a  just  pretension  to  merit,  or  flatter  the  artist  with  the  hope  of 
a  moderate  success. 

The  news  of  Lord  Ulswater's  untimely  death  soon  spread 
around  the  neighborhood,  and  was  conveyed  to  Mordaunt  by 
the  very  gentleman  whom  that  nobleman  had  charged  with  his 

hostile   message.     Algernon    repaired  at  once  to   W ,  to 

gather  from  Wolfe  some  less  exaggerated  account  of  the  affray 
than  that  which  the  many  tongues  of  Rumor  had  brought  to 
him. 

It  was  no  difficult  matter  to  see  the  precise  share  of  blame 
to  be  attached  to  Wolfe ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  biased  ac- 
count of  Glumford,  and  the  strong  spirit  of  party  then  existing 
in  the  country,  no  rational  man  could,  for  a  moment,  term  the 
event  of  a  sudden  fray  a  premeditated  murder,  or  the  violence 
of  the  aggrieved  the  black  offence  of  a  wilful  criminal.  Wolfe, 
therefore,  soon  obtained  a  release  from  the  confinement  to 
which  he  had  been  at  first  committed  ;  and,  with  a  temper  still 
more  exasperated  by  the  evident  disposition  of  his  auditors  tQ 


37^  THE   DISOWNEU. 

have  treated  him,  had  it  been  possible^  with  the  utmost  rigor, 
he  returned  to  companions  well  calculated,  by  their  converse 
and  bent  of  mind,  to  inflame  the  fester  of  his  moral  constitu- 
tion. 

It  happens,  generally,  that  men  very  vehement  in  any  par- 
ticular opinion  choose  their  friends,  not  for  a  general  similarity 
of  character,  but  in  proportion  to  their  mutual  congeniality  of 
sentiment  on  that  particular  opinion  ;  it  happens,  also,  that 
those  most  audibly  violent,  if  we  may  so  speak,  on  any  opinion, 
moral  or  political,  are  rarely  the  wisest  or  the  purest  of  their 
party.  ThosCj  with  whom  Wolfe  was  intimate  were  men  w1k> 
shared  none  of  the  nobler  characteristics  of  the  republican  : 
still  less  did  they  participate,  or  even  comprehend,  the  enlight- 
ened and  benevolent  views  for  which  the  wise  and  great  men 
of  that  sect — a  sect  to  which  all  philanthrophy  is,  perhaps  too 
fondly,  inclined  to  lean — have  been  so  conspicuously  eminent. 
On  the  contrary,  Wolfe's  comrades,  without  edut  ation,  and 
consequently  without  principle,  had  been  driven  to  disaffec- 
tion by  desperate  fortunes  and  ruined  reputations,  acting  upon 
minds  polluted  by  the  ignorance  and  hardened  among  the 
dross  of  the  populace.  But  the  worst  can,  by  constant  inter- 
course, corrupt  the  best ;  and  the  barriers  of  good  and  evil, 
often  confused  in  Wolfe's  mind  by  the  blindness  of  his  pas- 
sions, seemed,  as  his  intercourse  with  these  lawless  and  ruf&an 
associates  thickened,  to  be  at  last  utterly  broken  down  and 
swept  aAvay. 

Unhappily  too — soon  after  Wolfe's  return  to  London — the 
popular  irritation  showed  itself  in  mobs,  perhaps  rather  to  be 
termed  disorderly  than  seditious  ;  the  ministers,  however, 
thought  otherwise  ;  the  military  were  summoned,  and  much 
injury,  resulting,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  from  accident,  not  design, 
ensued  to  many  of  the  persons  assembled.  Some  were  severe- 
ly wounded  by  the  swords  of  the  soldiers — others  maimed  and 
trampled  upon  by  the  horses,  which  'shared  the  agitation  or 
irritability  of  their  riders  ;  and  a  few,  among  whom  were  two 
women  and  three  children,  lost  their  lives.  Wolfe  had  been 
one  of  the  crowd — and  the  scene,  melancholy  as  it  really  was, 
and  appearing  to  his  temper  unredeemed  and  inexcusable  on 
the  part  of  the  soldiers — left  on  his  mind  a  deep  and  burning 
impression  of  revenge.  Justice  (as  they  termed  it)  was  de- 
manded by  strong  bodies  of  the  people  upon  the  soldiers ;  but 
the  administration,  deeming  it  politic  rather  to  awe  than  to  con- 
ciliate, so  far  from  censuring  the  military,  approved  their  exer- 
tions 


THE  JDISOWNEt).  379 

From  that  time,  Wolfe  appears  to  have  resolved  upon  the 
execution  of  a  design,  which  he  had  long  imperfectly  and  con- 
fusedly meditated. 

This  was  no  less  a  crime  (atid  to  him  did  conscientiously 
seem  no  less  a  virtue),  than  to  seize  a  favorable  opportunity 
for  assassinating  the  most  prominent  member  of  the  adminis- 
tration, and  the  one  who,  above  all  the  rest,  was  the  most  odi- 
ous to  the  disaffected.  It  must  be  urged,  in  extenuation  of  the 
atrocity  of  this  design,  that  a  man  perpetually  brooding  over 
one  scheme,  which  to  him  has  become  the  very  sustenance  of 
existence,  and  which  scheme,  perpetually  frustrated,  grows  des- 
perate by  disappointment,  acquires  a  heat  of  'morbid  and  ob- 
lique enthusiasm,  which  may  not  be  unreasonably  termed  in- 
sanity ;  and  that  at  the  very  time  Wolfe  reconciled  it  to  his 
conscience  to  commit  the  murder  of  his  fellow-creature,  he 
would  have  moved  out  of  his  path  for  a  worm.  Assassination, 
indeed,  seemed  to  him  justice;  and  a  felon's  execution  the 
glory  of  martyrdom.  And  yet,  O  Fanatic,  thou  didst  anathe- 
matize the  Duellist  as  the  Man  of  blood^what  is  the  Assas- 


sin? 

CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

"  And  thou  that,  silent  at  my  knee, 

Dost  lift  to  mine  thy  soft,  dark,  earnest  eyes, 
Fill'd  with  the  love  of  childhood,  which  I  see 

Pure  through  its  depths— a  thing  without  disguise. 
Thou  that  hast  breathed  in  slumber  on  my  breast, 
When  I  have  check 'd  its  throbs  to  give  thee  rest, 

Mine  own,  whC'Se  yoimg  thoughts  fresh  before  me  rise, 
Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  guide  thy  prayer. 
And  circle  thy  young  soul  with  free  and  healthful  air." — IIeuans. 

The  events  we  have  recorded,  from  the  time  of  Clarence's 
visit  to  Mordaunt  to  the  death  of  Lord  Ulswater,  took  place 
within  little  more  than  a  week.  We  have  now  to  pass  in  silence 
over  several  weeks  ;  and  as  it  was  the  commencement  of 
autumn  when  we  introduced  Clarence  and  Mordaunt  to  our 
reader,  so  it  is  the  first  opening  of  winter  in  which  we  will  re- 
sume the  thread  of  our  narrative. 

Mordaunt  had  removed  to  London  ;  and,  although  he  had 
not  yet  taken  any  share  in  public  business,  he  was  only  watch- 
ing the  opportunity  to  commence  a  career,  the  brilliancy  of 
which,  those  who  knew  aught  of  his  mind  began  already  to 
foretell.  But  he  mixed  little,  if  at  all,  with  the  gnyer  occupants 
of  the  world's  prominent  places.     Absorbed  alternately  in  hi? 


3^0  THE   DISOWNED. 

Studies  and  his  labors  of  good,  the  halls  of  pleasure  were  sel- 
dom visited  by  his  presence;  and  they  who,  in  the  crowd,  knew 
nothing  of  him  but  his  name  and  the  lofty  bearing  of  his  mieii, 
recoiled  from  the  coldness  of  his  exterior,  and,  while  they  mar- 
velled at  his  retirement  and  reserve,  saw  in  both  but  the  mo- 
roseness  of  the  student,  and  the  gloom  of  the  misanthropist. 

But  the  nobleness  of  his  person — the  antiquity  of  his  birth — 
his  wealth,  his  unblemished  character,  and  the  interest  thrown 
over  his  name  by  the  reputation  of  talent,  and  theunpenetrated 
mystery  of  his  life,  all  powerfully  spoke  in  his  favor  to  those  of 
the  gentler  sex,  who  judge  us  not  only  from  what  we  are  to 
others,  but  from  what  they  imagine  we  can  be  to  them.  From 
such  allurements,  however,  as  from  all  else,  the  mourner  turned 
only  the  more  deeply  to  cherish  the  memory  of  the  dead  ;  and 
it  was  a  touching  and  holy  sight  to  mark  the  mingled  excess  of 
melancholy  and  fondness  with  which  he  watched  over  that 
treasure  in  whose  young  beauty  and  guileless  heart  his  departed 
Isabel  had  yet  left  the  resemblance  of  her  features  and  her  love. 
There  seemed  between  them  to  exist  even  a  dearer  and  closer 
tie  than  that  of  daughter  and  sire  !  for,  in  both,  the  objects 
which  usually  divide  the  affections  of  the  man  or  the  child  had 
but  a  feeble  charm  ;  Isabel's  mind  had  expanded  beyond  her 
years,  and  Algernon's  had  outgrown  his  time.;  so  that  neither 
the  sports  natural  to  her  age,  nor  the  ambition  ordinary  to  his, 
were  sufficient  to  wean  or  to  distract  the  unity  of  their  love. 
When,  after  absence,  his  well-known  step  trod  lightly  in  the 
hall,  her  ear,  which  had  listened,  and  longed,  and  thirsted  for 
the  sound,  taught  her  fairy  feet  to  be  the  first  to  welcome  his 
return  ;  and  when  the  slightest  breath  of  sickness  menaced  her 
slender  frame,  it  was  his  hand  that  smoothed  her  pillow,  and 
his  smile  that  cheered  away  her  pain  ;  and  when  she  sunk 
into  sleep  she  knew  that  a  father's  heart  watched  over  her 
through  the  long  but  untiring  night — that  a  father's  eye  would 
be  the  first  which,  on  waking,  she  would  meet. 

"Oh  !  beautiful,  and  rare  as  beautiful,"  was  that  affection  ; 
in  the  parent  no  earthlier  or  harder  sternness  in  authority,  nor 
weakness  in  doating,  nor  caprice  in  love — in  the  child  no  fear- 
debasing  reverence,  yet  no  familiarity  diminishing  respect.  But 
Love,  whose  pride  is  in  serving,  seemed  to  make  at  once  soft 
and  hallowed  the  offices  mutually  rendered — and  Nature,  never 
counteracted  in  her  dictates,  wrought,  without  a  visible  effort, 
the  proper  channels  into  which  those  offices  should  flow  ;  and 
that  Charity,  which  not  only  covers  sins,  but  lifts  the  veil  from 
virtues   whose  beauty  might  otherwise  have  lain  concealed, 


tai.  DISOWNED.  381 

finked  them  closer  and  closer,  and  threw  Over  that  link  the 
sanctity  of  itself.  For  it  was  Algernon's  sweetest  pleasure  to 
make  her  young  hands  the  ministers  of  good  to  others,  and  to 
drink,  at  such  times,  from  the  rich  glow  of  her  angel  counte- 
nance, the  purified  selfishness  of  his  reward.  And  when  aftei 
the  divine  joy  of  blessings  which,  perhaps,  the  youngest  taste 
yet  more  vividly  than  their  sires,  she  threw  her  arms,  around 
his  neck,  and  thanked  him  with  glad  tears  for  the  luxury  lie 
had  bestowed  upon  her,  how  could  they,  in  that  gushing  over- 
flow of  heart,  help  loving  each  other  the  more,  or  feeling  that 
in  that  love  there  was  something  which  justified  the  excess? 

Nor  have  we  drawn  with  too  exaggerating  a  pencil,  nor, 
though  Isabel's  viind  was  older  than  her  years,  extended  that 
prematureness  to  her  heart.  For,  where  we  set  the  example  of 
benevolence,  and  see  that  the  example  is  in  nought  corrupted, 
the  milk  of  human  kindness  will  flow  not  the  least  readily  from 
the  youngest  breast,  and  out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  will  come 
the  wisdom  of  charity  and  love  ! 

Ever  since  Mordaunt's  arrival  in  town,  he  had  sought  out 
Wolfe's  abode,  for  the  purpose  of  ministering  to  the  poverty 
under  which  he  rightly  conjectured  that  the  republican  labored. 
But  the  habitation  of  one,  needy,  distressed,  seldom  living  long 
in  one  place,  and  far  less  notorious  of  late  than  he  had  formerly 
been,  was  not  easy  to  discover ;  nor  was  it  till  after  long  and 
vain  search  that  he  ascertained  the  retreat  of  his  singular  ac- 
quaintance. The  day  in  which  he  effected  this  object  we  shall 
have  hereafter  occasion  to  specify.  Meanwhile  we  return  to 
Mr.  Crauford. 


CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

"  Plot  on  thy  little  hour,  and  skein  on  skein 
Weave  the  vain  mesh,  in  which  thy  subtle  soul 
Broods  on  its  venom  !     Lo  !  behind,  before. 
Around  thee,  like  an  armament  of  cloud. 
The  black  Fate  labors  onward  !  " — ANON. 

The  dusk  of  a  winter's  evening  gathered  over  a  room  in 
Crauford's  house  in  town,  only  relieved  from  the  closing 
darkness  by  an  expiring  and  sullen  fire,  beside  which  Mr. 
Bradley  sat  with  his  feet  upon  the  fender,  apparently  striving 
to  coax  some  warmth  into  the  icy  palms  of  his  spread  hands. 
Crauford  himself  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  a 
changeful  step,  and  ever  and  anon  glancing  his  bright,  shrewd 


3^2  THE   DISOWNED, 

eye  at  the  partner  of  his  fraud,  who,  seemingly  unconscious  of  tho 
observation  he  underwent,  appeared  to  occupy  his  attention  sole- 
ly with  the  difficulty  of  warming  his  meagre  and  withered  frame. 

"  Ar'n't  you  very  cold  there,  sir  ?  "  said  Bradley,  after  a  long 
pause,  and  pushing  himself  farther  into  the  verge  of  the  dying 
embers,  "may  I  not  ring  for  some  more  coals  ?" 

"Hell and  the ;    Ibeg  your  pardon,  my  good  Bradley, 

but  you  vex  me  beyond  patience  ;  how  can  you  think  of  such 
trifles  when  our  very  lives  are  in  so  imminent  a  danger  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  honored  benefactor,  they  are  indeed 
in  danger ! " 

"  Bradley,  we  have  but  one  hope — fidelity  to  each  other.  If 
we  persist  in  the  same  story,  not  a  tittle  can  be  brought  home 
to  us — not  a  tittle,  my  good  Bradley  ;  and^though  our  charac- 
ters may  be  a  little  touched,  why,  what  is  a  character  ?  Shall  we 
eat  less,  drink  less,  enjoy  less,  when  we  have  lost  it  ?  Not  a  whit. 
No,  my  friend,  we  will  go  abroad  ;  leave  it  to  me  to  save  from 
the  wreck  of  our  fortunes  enough  to  live  upon  like  princes." 

"  If  not  ]\ke peers,  my  honored  benefactor." 

"  Sdeath  ! — yes,  yes,  very  good — he  !  he  !  he  !  if  not  peers. 
Well,  all  happiness  is  in  the  senses,  and  Richard  Crauford  has 
as  many  senses  as  Viscount  Innisdale  ;  but  had  we  been  able 
to  protract  inquiry  another  week,  Bradley,  why,  I  should  have 
been  my  Lord,  and  you  Sir  John." 

"  You  bear  your  losses  like  a  hero,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bradley. 

"  To  be  sure  ;  there  is  no  loss,  man,  but  life — none  ;  let  us 
preserve  that,  and  it  will  be  our  own  fault  if  we  don't,  and  the 
devil  take  all  the  rest.  But  bless  me,  it  grows  late,  and,  at  all 
events,  we  are  safe  for  some  hours  ;  the  inquiry  won't  take 
place  till  twelve  to-morrow,  why  should  not  we  feast  till  twelve 
to-night.     Ring,  my  good  fellow,  dinner  must  be  nearly  ready." 

"  Why,  honored  sir,"  said  Bradley,  "I  want  to  go  home  to 
see  my  wife,  and  arrange  my  house.  Who  knows  but  I  may 
sleep  in  Newgate  to-morrow  ?  " 

Crauford,  who  had  been  still  walking,  to  and  fro,  stopped 
abruptly  at  this  speech,  and  his  eye,  even  through  the  gloom, 
shot  out  a  livid  and  fierce  light  before  which  the  timid  and 
humble  glance  of  Mr.  Bradley  quailed  in  an  instant. 

"Go  home! — no,  my  friend,  no,  I  can't  part  with  you  to- 
night, no,  not  for  an  instant.  I  have  many  lessons  to  give  you. 
How  are  we  to  learn  our  parts  for  to-morrow,  if  we  don't  re- 
hearse them  beforehand  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  a  single 
blunder  may  turn  what  I  hope  may  be  a  farce,  into  a  tragedy  ? 
Go  home  ! — pooh,  pooh — why,  man,  I  have  not  seen  my  wife, 


THE   DISOWNED.  383 

nor  put  tny  house  to  rights,  and  if  you  do  but  listen  to  me,  I  tell 
you  again  and  again  that  not  a  hair  of  our  heads  can  be  touched.^* 

"You  know  best,  honored  sir;  I  bow  to  your  decision." 

"  Bravo,  honest  Brad  !  and  now  for  dinner.  I  have  the  most 
glorious  champagne  that  ever  danced  in  foam  to  your  lip.  No 
counsellor  like  the  bottle,  believe  me  !  " 

And  the  servant  entering  to  announce  dinner,  Crauford  took 
Bradley's  arm  and,  leaning  affectionately  upon  it,  passed 
through  an  obsequious  and  liveried  row  of  domestics  to  a  room 
blazing  with  light  and  plate.  A  noble  fire  was  the  first  thing 
which  revived  Bradley's  spirit,  and,  as  he  spread  his  hands 
over  it  before  he  sat  down  to  the  table,  he  surveyed,  witii  a 
gleam  of  gladness  upon  his  thin  cheeks,  two  vases  of  glittering 
metal  formerly  the  boast  of  a  king,  in  which  were  immersed 
the  sparkling  genii  of  the  grape. 

Crauford,  always  2,  gourmand,  ate  with  unusual  appetite,  and 
pressed  the  wine  upon  Bradley  with  an  eager  hospitality,  which 
soon  somewhat  clouded  the  senses  of  the  worthy  man.  'I'he  din- 
ner was  removed,  the  servants  retired,  and  the  friends  were  alone. 

"A  pleasant  trip  to  France  !  "  cried  Crauford,  filling  a  bumper. 
"  That's  the  land  for  hearts  like  ours.  I  tell  you  what,  little 
Brad,  we  will  leave  our  wives  behind  us,  and  take  with  a  new 
country,  and  new  names,  a  new  lease  of  life.  What  will  it  signify 
to  men  making  love  at  Paris  what  fools  say  of  them  in  London  ? 
Another  bumper,  honest  Brad — a  bumper  to  the  girls  !  What 
say  you  to  tJiat,  eh  }  " 

"  Lord  sir,  you  are  so  facetious — so  witty  !  It  must  be 
owned  that  a  black  eye  is  a  great  temptation — Lira-lira,  la-la  !  " 
And  Mr.  Bradley's  own  eyes  rolled  joyously. 

"  Bravo,  Brad  ! — a  song,  a  song  !  but  treason  to  King  Bur- 
gundy !     Your  glass  is—" 

'*  Empty,  honored  sir,  I  know  it  ! — Lira-lira  la  ! — but  it  is 
easily  filled  !  We  who  have  all  our  lives  been  pouring  from 
one  vessel  into  another,  know  how  to  keep  it  np  to  the  last ! 

"  '  Courage  then,  cries  the  knight,  we  may  yet  be  forgiven, 
Or  at  worst  buy  the  bishop's  reversion  in  heaven  ; 
Our  frequent  escapes  in  this  world  show  how  true  'tU, 
That  gold  is  the  only  Elixir  Salulis. 

Derry  down,  derry  down. 

All  you,  who  to  swindling  conveniently  creep, 
Ne'er  piddle — by  thousands  the  treasury  sweep, 
Your  safety  depends  on  the  weight  of  the  sum. 
For  no  rope  was  yet  made  that  could  tie  up  a  plum. 
Derry  down,  etc.'"* 

♦  From  3  ballad  called  "  The  Knight  and  the  Prelate." 


384  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  Bravissxmo,  little  Brad  ! — you  are  quite  a  wit  !  See  what 
it  is  to  have  one's  faculties  called  out.  Come,  a  toast  to  old 
England,  the  land  in  which  no  man  ever  wants  a  farthing  who 
has  wit  to  steal  it — '  Old  England  for  ever  ! ' — your  rogue  is 
your  only  true  patriot  !  " — and  Crauford  poured  the  remainder 
of  the  bottle,  nearly  three  parts  full,  into  a  beaker,  which  he 
pushed  to  Bradley.  That  convivial  gentleman  emptied  it  at  a 
draught,  and,  faltering  out,  "  Honest  Sir  John — room  for  my 
Lady  Bradley's  carriage,"  dropped  down  on  the  floor  insensible. 

Crauford  rose  instantly,  satisfied  himself  that  the  intoxication 
was  genuine,  and,  giving  the  lifeless  body  a  kick  of  contemptuous 
disgust,  left  the  room,  muttering — "The  dull  ass,  did  he  think 
it  was  on  his  back  that  I  was  going  to  ride  off  ! — He  ! — he  ! — 
he !  But  stay,  let  me  feel  my  pulse.  Too  fast  by  twenty 
strokes  !  One's  never  sure  of  the  mind  if  one  does  not  regulate 
the  body  to  a  hair !  Drank  too  much — must  take  a  powder  be- 
fore I  start." 

Mounting  by  a  back  staircase  to  his  bed-room,  Crauford  un- 
locked a  chest,  took  out  a  bundle  of  clerical  clothes,  a  large 
shovel  hat,  and  a  large  wig.  Hastily,  but  not  carelessly,  induc- 
ing himself  in  these  articles  of  disguise,  he  then  proceeded  to 
stain  his  fair  cheeks  with  a  preparation  which  soon  gave  them  a 
swarthy  hue.  Putting  his  own  clothes  in  the  chest,  which  he 
carefully  locked  (placing  the  key  in  his  pocket),  he  next  took 
from  a  desk  on  his  dressing-table  a  purse  ;  opening  this,  he  ex- 
tracted a  diamond  of  great  size  and  immense  value,  which,  years 
before,  in  preparation  of  the  event  that  had  now  taken  place,  he 
had  purchased. 

?Iis  usual  sneer  curled  his  lip  as  he  gazed  at  it.  **  Now,"  said 
he,  "  is  it  not  strange  that  this  little  stone  should  supply  the 
mighty  wants  of  that  grasping  thing,  man !  Who  talks  of 
religion,  country,  wife,  children  ?  This  petty  mineral  can  pur- 
chase them  all !  Oh,  what  a  bright  joy  speaks  out  in  your  white 
cheek,  my  beauty  ?  What  are  all  human  charms  to  yours?  Why, 
by  your  spell,  most  magical  of  talismans,  my  years  may  walk, 
gloating  and  revelling,  through  a  lane  of  beauties,  till  they  fall 
into  the  grave  !  Pish  ! — that  grave  is  an  ugly  thought — a  very, 
very  ugly  thought !  But  come,  my  sun  of  hope,  I  must  eclipse 
you  for  a  while  !  Type  of  myself — while  you  hide,  I  hide  also  ; 
and  when  I  once  more  let  you  forth  to  the  day,  f/ien  shine  out 
Richard  Crauford — shine  out!"  So  saying,  he  sewed  the 
diamond  carefully  in  the  folds  of  his  shirt ;  and  re-arranging 
his  dress,  took  the  cooling  powder,  which  he  weighed  out  to  a 
grain,  with  a  scrupulous  and  untrembling  hand — descended  the 


THE    DISOWNED.  jjS^ 

back  stairs — opened  the  door,  and  found  himself  in  the  open 
street. 

The  clock  struck  ten  as  he  entered  a  hackney-coach  and 
drove  to  another  part  of  London.  "  What,  so  late  !  "  thought 
he  :  "1  must  be  at  Dover  in  twelve  hours — the  vessel  sails 
then.  Humph  ! — some  danger  yet !  What  a  pity  that  I  could 
not  trust  that  fool.  He! — he! — he! — what  will  he  think  to- 
morrow, when  he  wakes  and  finds  that,  only  one  is  destined  to 
swing." 

The  hackney-coach  stopped,  according  to  his  direction,  at  an 
inn  in  the  city.  Here  Crauford  asked  if  a  note  had  been  left 
for  Dr.  Stapylton.  One  (written  by  himself)  was  given  to  him. 
"  Merciful  Heaven  !  "  cried  the  false  doctor,  as  he  read  it,  "my 
daughter  is  on  a  bed  of  death  !  " 

The  landlord's  look  wore  anxiety — the  doctor  seemed  for  a 
moment  paralyzed  by  silent  woe.  He  recovered,  shook  his 
head  piteously,  and  ordered,  a  post-chaise  and  four  on  to  Can- 
terbury without  delay. 

"  It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good  ! "  thought  the 
landlord,  as  he  issued  the  order  into  the  yard. 

The  chaise  was  soon  out — the  doctor  entered — off  went  the 
post-boys — and  Richard  Crauford,  feeling  his  diamond,  turned 
his  thoughts  to  safely  and  to  France. 

A  little,  unknown  man,  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  bar  for 
the  last  two  liours,  sipping  brandy  and  water,  and  who,  from  his 
extreme  taciturnity  and  quiet,  had  been  scarcely  observed,  now 
rose.  "  Landlord,"  said  he,  "  do  you  know  who  that  gentle- 
man is?  " 

"  Why,"  quoth  Boniface,  "  the  letter  to  him  was  directed, 
*  For  the  Rev.  Dr.  Stapylton — will  be  called  for.'  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  little  man,  yawning — "  I  shall  have  a  long 
night's  work  of  it — Have  you  another  chaise  and  four  in  the 
yard?" 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,  to  be  sure  ! "  cried  the  landlord  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"Out  with  it  then!  Another  glass  of  brandy  and  water — a 
little  stronger — no  sugar  !  " 

The  landlord  stared — the  bar-maid  stared — even  the  head- 
waiter,  a  very  stately  person,  stared  too. 

"  Harkye,"  said  the  little  man,  sipping  his  brandy  and  water, 
"I  am  a  deuced  good-natured  fellow,  so  I'll  make  you  a  great 
man  to-night  ;  for  nothing  makes  a  man  so  great  as  being  let 
into  a  great  secret.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  UlC:  rich  Mr. 
Crauford?"  i.       • 


386  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  Certainly — who  has  not  ? " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ? " 

"  No  !     I  can't  say  I  ever  did." 

"You  lie,  landlord — you  saw  him  to-night." 

"Sir!"  cried  the  landlord,  bristling  up. 

The  little  man  pulled  out  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  very  quietly 
began  priming  them  out  of  a  small  powder-flask. 

The  landlord  started  back — the  head- waiter  cried  "rape," 
and  the  bar-maid  "murder." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you,  sir?  "cried  the  landlord. 

"  Mr.  Tickletrout,  the  celebrated  officer — thief-taker,  as  they 
call  it.  Have  a  care,  Ma'am,  the  pistols  are  loaded.  I  see  the 
chaise  is  out — there's  the  reckoning,  landlord." 

"O  Lord  !  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  any  reckoning — too  great  an 
honor  for  my  poor  house  to  be  favored  with  your  company  ; 
but  (following  the  little  man  to  the  door)  whom  did  you  please 
to  say  you  were  going  to  catch  !  " 

"Mr.  Crauford,  alias  Dr.  Stapylton." 

"  Lord !  Lord  ! — to  think  of  it — how  slaocking !  What  has 
he  done?" 

"Swindled,  I  believe." 

"  My  eyes  !  And  why,  sir,  did  not  you  catch  him  when  he 
was  in  the  bar?" 

"Because  then  I  should  not  have  got  paid  for  my  journey  to 
Dover.     Shut  the  door,  boy  ;  first  stage  on  to  Canterbury." 

And,  drawing  a  woollen  night-cap  over  his  ears,  Mr.  Tickle- 
trout  resigned  himself  to  his  nocturnal  excursion. 

On  the  very  day  on  which  the  patent  for  his  peerage  was  to 
have  been  made  out — on  the  very  day  on  which  he  had  after- 
wards calculated  on  reaching  Paris — on  that  very  day  was  Mr. 
Richard  Crauford  lodged  in  Newgate,  fully  committed  for  a 
trial  of  life  and  death. 


CHAPTER  LXXXni. 

"  There,  if,  O  gentle  love  !  I  read  aright 
The  utterance  that  sealed  thy  sacred  bond : 
'Twas  listening  to  those  accents  of  delight 
She  hid  upon  his  breast  those  eyes — beyond 
Expression's  power  to  paint — all  languish ingly  fond." — Campbeli* 

"  And  you  will  positively  leave  us  for  London,"  said  Lady 
Flora  tenderly — "and  to-morrow,  too!"  This  was  said  to 
one  who,  under  the  name  of  Clarence  Linden,  has  played  th« 


tttE  DISOWNED.  587 

principal  part  in  our  drama,  and  who  now.  by  the  death  of  his 
brother,  succeeding  to  the  honors  of  his  house,  we  present  to 
our  reader  as  Clinton  L'Estrange,  Earl  of  Ulswater. 

They  were  alone  in  the  memorable  pavilion  ;  and  though  it 
was  winter,  the  sun  shone  cheerily  into  the  apartment ;  and 
through  the  door,  which  was  left  partly  open,  the  evergreens, 
contrasting  with  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  oak  and  beech,  could 
be  just  descried,  furnishing  the  lover  with  some  meet  simile  of 
love,  and  deceiving  the  eyes  of  those  willing  to  be  deceived 
with  a  resemblance  to  the  departed  summer.  The  unusual 
mildness  of  the  day  seemed  to  operate  genially  upon  the  birds — 
those  children  of  light  and  song  ;  and  they  grouped  blithely 
beneath  the  window  and  round  the  door,  where  the  hand  of 
the  kind  young  spirit  of  the  place  had  so  often  ministered  to 
their  wants.  Every  now  and  then,  too,  you  might  hear  the 
shrill  glad  note  of  the  blackbird  keeping  measure  to  his  swift 
and  low  flight,  and  sometimes  a  vagrant  hare  from  the  neigh- 
boring preserves  sauntered  fearlessly  by  the  half-shut  door, 
secure,  from  long  experience,  of  an  asylum  in  the  vicinity  of 
one  who  had  drawn  from  the  breast  of  Nature  a  tenderness 
and  love  for  all  its  offspring. 

Her  lover  sat  at  Flora's  feet ;  and,  looking  upward,  seemed 
to  seek  out  the  fond  and  melting  eyes  which,  too  conscious  of 
their  secret,  turned  bashfully  from  his  gaze.  He  had  drawn 
her  arm  over  his  shoulder ;  and  clasping  that  small  and  snowy 
hand,  which,  long  coveted  with  a  mi.ser's  desire,  was  at  length 
won,  he  pressed  upon  it  a  thousand  kisses — sweeter  beguilers 
of  time  than  even  words.  All  had  been  long  explained — the 
space  between  their  hearts  annihilated — doubt,  anxiety,  mis- 
construction, those  clouds  of  love,  had  passed  away,  and  left 
not  a  wreck  to  obscure  its  heaven. 

"And  you  will  leave  us  to-morrow — must  it  be  to-mor- 
row ? " 

"Ah  I  Flora,  it^must;  but  see,  I  have  your  lock  of  hair — 
your  beautiful,  daVk  hair,  to  kiss,  when  I  am  away  from  you, 
and  I  shall  have  your  letters,  dearest — a  letter  every  day ;  and 
oh !  more  than  all,  I  shall  have  the  hope,  the  certainty,  that 
when  we  meet  again,  you  will  be  mine  forever." 

**And  I,  too,  must,  by  seeing  it  in  your  handwriting,  learn  to 
reconcile  myself  to  your  new  name.  Ah  !  I  wish  you  had 
been  still  Clarence — only  Clarence.  Wealth,  rank,  power—' 
what  are  all  these  but  rivals  to  poor  Flora?" 

Lady  Flora  sighed,  and  the  next  moment  blushed  ;  and. 
what  with  the  sigh  and  the  blush,  Clarence's  lip  wandered  from 


388  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  hand  to  the  cheek,  and  thence  to  a  mouth  on  which  the 
west  wind  seemed  to  have  left  the  sweets  of  a  thousand  sum- 
mers. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 

"A  Hounsditch  man,  one  of  the  devil's  near  kinsmen — a  broker." 

— Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

"  We  have  here  discovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  of  lechery  that  ever 
was  kno\vn  in  the  commonwealth." — Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

It  was  an  evening  of  mingled  rain  and  wind,  the  hour  about 
nine,  when  Mr.  Morris  Brown,  under  the  shelter  of  ihatadmira- 
JdIc  umbrella  of  sea-green  silk,  to  which  we  have  before  had  the 
honor  to  summon  the  attention  of  our  readers,  was,  after  a  day 
of  business,  plodding  homeward  his  weary  way.  The  obscure 
streets  through  which  his  course  was  bent  were  at  no  time  very 
thickly  thronged,  and  at  the  present  hour  the  inclemency  of 
the  night  rendered  them  utterly  deserted.  It  is  true  that  now 
and  then  a  solitary  female,  holding  up  with  one  hand  garments 
already  piteously  bedraggled,  and  with  the  other  thrusting  her 
umbrella  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  hostile  winds,  might  be  seen 
crossing  the  intersected  streets,  and  vanishing  amid  the  subter- 
ranean recesses  of  some  kitchen  area,  or  tramping  onward 
amidst  the  mazes  of  the  metropolitan  labyrinth,  till,  like  the 
cuckoo, "heard,"  but  no  longer  "seen,"  the  echo  of  herretreat- 
ingpattens  made  a  dying  music  to  the  reluctant  ear  ;  or  indeed, 
at  intervals  of  unfrequent  occurrence,  a  hackney  vehicle  jolted, 
rumbling,  bumping  over  the  uneven  stones,  as  if  groaning  forth 
its  gratitude  to  the  elements  for  \vhich  it  was  indebted  for  its 
fare.  Sometimes  also  a  chivalrous  gallant  of  the  feline  species 
ventured  its  delicate  paws  upon  the  streaming  pavement,  and 
shook,  with  a  small  but  dismal  cry,  the..rain-4r,9j>§  from  the 
pyramidal  roofs  of  its  tender  ears.  ,    '••      "      '. 

But,  save  these  occasional  infringements  6x\  its  empire,  soli- 
tude, dark,  comfortless,  and  unrelieved,  fell  around  the  creak- 
ing footsteps  of  Mr.  Morris  Brown.  "I  wish,"  soliloquized  the 
^orthy  broker,  "  that  I  had  been  able  advantageously  to  dispose 
of  this  cursed  umbrella  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove  ;  it  is  very 
little  calculated  for  any  but  a  single  lady  of  slender  shape,  and 
though  it  certainly  keeps  the  rain  off  my  hat,  it  only  sends  it 
with  a  double  dripping  upon  my  shoulders.  Pish,  deuce  take 
the  umbrella,  I  shall  catch  my  death  of  cold." 

These  comphiints  of  an  affliction  tliat  was  assuredly  sufficient 


THE   DISOWNED.  389 

to  irritate  the  naturally  sweet  temper  of  Mr.  Brown,  only  ceased, 
as  that  industrious  personage  paused  at  the  corner  of  the  street, 
for  the  purpose  of  selecting  the  dryest  part  through  which  to 
effect  the  miserable  act  of  crossing  to  the  opposite  side.  Occu- 
pied in  stretching  his  neck  over  the  kennel,  in  order  to  take  the 
fullest  survey  of  its  topography  which  the  scanty  and  agitated 
lamps  would  allow,  the  unhappy  wanderer,  lowering  his 
umbrella,  suffered  a  cross  and  violent  gust  of  wind  to  rush,  as 
if  on  purpose,  against  the  interior.  The  rapidity  with  which 
this  was  done,  and  the  sudden  impetus,  Avhich  gave  to  tlie 
inflated  silk  the  force  of  a  balloon,  happening  to  occur  exactly 
at  the  moment  Mr.  Brown  was  stooping  with  such  wistful  anx- 
iety over  the  pavement,  that  gentleman,  to  his  inexpressible 
dismay,  was  absolutely  lifted,  as  it  were,  from  his  present  foot- 
ing, and  immersed  in  a  running  rivulet  of  liquid  mire,  which 
flowed  immediately  below  the  pavement.  Nor  was  this  all — 
for  the  wind,  finding  itself  somewhat  imprisoned  in  the  narrow 
receptacle  it  had  thus  abruptly  entered,  made  so  strenuous  an 
exertion  to  extricate  itself,  that  it  turned  Lady  Waddilove's 
memorable  relic  utterly  inside  out  ;  so  that  when  Mr.  Brown, 
aghast  at  the  calamity  of  his  immersion,  lifted  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  with  a  devotion  that  had  in  it  more  of  expostulation 
than  submission,  he  beheld,  by  tlie  melancholy  lamps,  the  ap- 
parition of  his  umbrella,  the  exact  opposite  to  its  legitimate 
conformation,  and  seeming,  with  its  lengthy  stick  and  inverted 
summit,  the  actual  and  absolute  resemblance  of  a  gigantic 
wine-glass. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  with  that  ironical  bitterness  so 
common  to  intense  despair,  "  now,  that's  what  I  call  pleasant." 

As  if  the  elements  were  guided  and  set  on  by  all  the  de- 
parted souls  of  those  whom  Mr.  Brown  had,  at  any  time,  over- 
reached in  his  profession,  scarcely  had  the  afflicted  broker 
uttered  this  brief  sentence,  before  a  discharge  of  rain,  tenfold 
more  heavy  than  any  which  had  yet  fallen,  tumbled  down  in 
literal  torrents  upon  the  defenceless  head  of  the  itinerant. 

"This  won't  do,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  plucking  up  courage,  and 
splashing  out  of  the  little  rivulet,  once  more,  into  terra  firma, 
"  this  won't  do — I  must  find  a  shelter  somewhere. — Dear,  dear, 
how  the  wet  runs  down  me.  I  am  for  all  the  vi'orld  like  the 
famous  dripping  well  in  Derbyshire.  What  a  beast  of  an  um- 
brella ! — I'll  never  buy  one  again  of  an  old  lady — hang  me  if 
I  do." 

As  the  miserable  Morris  uttered  these  sentences,  which 
gushed  out,  one  by  one.  in  a  broken  stream  of  complaint,  he 


590  fHE  DISOAVNED. 

looked  round  and  round — before — behind — beside — for  some 
temporary  protection  or  retreat.  In  vain — the  uncertainty  of 
the  light  only  allowed  him  to  discover  houses,  in  which  no  por- 
tico extended  its  friendly  shelter,  and  where  even  the  doors 
seemed  divested  of  the  narrow  ledge  wherewith  they  are,  in 
more  civilized  quarters,  ordinarily  crowned. 

"  I  shall  certainly  have  the  rheumatism  all  this  winter,"  said 
Mr.  Brown,  hurrying  onward  as  fast  as  he  was  able.  Just  then, 
glancing  desperately  down  a  narrow  lane,  which  crossed  his 
path,  he  perceived  the  scaffolding  of  a  house,  in  which  repair 
or  alteration  had  been  at  work.  A  ray  of  hope  flashed  across 
him  ;  he  redoubled  his  speed,  and,  entering  the  welcome 
haven,  found  himself  entirely  protected  from  the  storm.  The 
extent  of  scaffolding  was,  indeed,  rather  considerable ;  and, 
though  the  extreme  narrowness  of  the  lane,  and  the  increasing 
gloom  of  the  night,  left  Mr.  Brown  in  almost  total  darkness,  so 
that  he  could  not  perceive  the  exact  peculiarities  of  his  situa- 
tion, yet  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  shelter  he  had 
obtained  ;  and  after  shaking  the  rain  from  his  hat — squeezing 
his  coat  sleeves  and  lappets,  satisfying  himself  that  it  was  only 
about  the  shoulders  that  he  was  thoroughly  wetted,  and  thrust- 
ing two  pocket-handkerchiefs  between  his  shirt  and  his  skin,  as 
preventives  to  the  dreaded  rheumatism,  Mr.  Brown  leant 
luxuriously  back  against  the  wall  in  the  farthest  corner  of  his 
retreat,  and  busied  himself  with  endeavoring  to  restore  his 
insulted  umbrella  to  its  original  utility  of  shape. 

Our  wanderer  had  been  about  three  minutes  in  this  situation, 
when  he  heard  the  voices  of  two  men,  who  were  hastening 
along  the  lane. 

"  But  do  stop,"  said  one  ;  and  these  were  the  first  words  dis- 
tinctly audible  to  the  ear  of  Mr.Brown — "  do  stop,  the  rain 
can't  last  much  longer,  and  we  have  a  long  way  yet  to  go." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  other,  in  a  voice  more  imperious  than  the 
first,  which  was  evidently  plebeian,  and  somewhat  foreign  in  its 
tone,  "no,  we  have  no  time.  What  signify  the  inclemencies  of 
Weather  to  men  feeding  upon  an  inward  and  burning  thought, 
and  made,  by  the  workings  of  the  mind,  almost  callous  to  the 
contingencies  of  the  frame  ?" 

"  Nay,  my  very  good  friend,"  said  the  first  speaker  with 
positive,  though  not  disrespectful,  earnestness,  "  that  may  be 
all  very  fine  for  you,  who  have  a  constitution  like  a  horse  ;  but 
I  am  quite  a — what  call  you  it — an  invalid — eh  !  and  have  a 
devilish  cough  ever  since  I  have  been  in  this  d — d  country — 
beg  your  pardon,  no  offence  to  it — so  I  shall  just  step  under 


THE   DISOWNED. 


39* 


cover  of  this  scaffolding  for  a  few  minutes,  and  if  you  like  the 
rain  so  much,  my  very  good  friend,  why  there  is  plenty  of  room 
in  the  lane  too — (ugh — ugh — ugh)  to  enjoy  it." 

As  the  speaker  ended,  the  dim  light,  just  faintly  glimmering 
at  the  entrance  of  the  friendly  shelter,  was  obscured  by  his 
shadow,  and  presently  afterwards,  his  companion,  joining  him, 
said  : 

*'  Well,  if  it  must  be  so  ;  but  how  can  you  be  fit  to  brave  all 
the  perils  of  our  scheme,  when  you  shrink,  like  a  palsied  crone, 
from  the  sprinkling  of  a  few  water-drops?" 

**  A  few  wdXQv-drops,  my  very  good,  friend,"  answered  the 
other,  "  a  few — what  call  you  them — ay — water-/tf//jr  rather — 
(ugh — ugh)  ;  but  let  me  tell  you,  my  brother  citizen,  that  a 
man  may  not  like  to  get  his  skin  wet  with  water,  and  would  yet 
thrust  his  arm  up  to  the  very  elbow  in  blood  ! — (ugh — ugh)." 

"  The  devil !  "  mentally  ejaculated  Mr.  Brown,  who  at  the 
word  "  scheme,"  had  advanced  one  step  from  his  retreat,  but 
who  now,  at  the  last  words  of  the  intruder,  drew  back  as  gently 
as  a  snail  into  his  shell ;  and  although  his  person  was  far  too 
much  enveloped  in  shade  to  run  the  least  chance  of  detection, 
yet  the  honest  broker  began  to  feel  a  little  tremor  vibrate  along 
the  chords  of  his  thrilling  frame,  and  a  new  anathema  against 
the  fatal  umbrella  rise  to  his  lips. 

"Ah  ! "  quoth  the  second,  "  I  trust  that  it  may  be  so  ;  but  to 
return  to  our  project — are  you  quite  sure  that  these  two 
identical  ministers  are  in  the  r^-^^/ar  habit  of  a'<7//t/«^  home- 
ward from  that  parliament  which  their  despotism  has  so  de- 
graded ? " 

"  Sure — ay,  that  I  am  ;  Davidson  swears  to  it !  " 

"  And  you  are  also  sure  of  their  persons,  so  that,  even  in  the 
dusk,  you  can  recognize  them  ?  for,  you  know,  I  have  never 
seen  them." 

"  Sure  as  five-pence ! "  returned  the  first  speaker,  to  whose 
mind  the  lives  of  the  persons  referred  to  were  of  considerable 
less  value  than  the  sum  elegantly  specified  in  his  metaphorical 
reply. 

"  Then,"  said  the  other,  with  a  deep,  stem  determination  of 
tone — "  then  shall  this  hand,  by  which  one  of  the  proudest  of 
our  oppressors  has  already  fallen,  be  made  a  still  worthier  in- 
strument of  the  wrath  of  Heaven  !  " 

"You  are  a  d — d  pretty  shot,  I  believe,"  quoth  the  first 
speaker,  as  indifferently  as  if  he  were  praising  the  address  of  a 
Norfolk  squire. 

"  Never  yet  did  my  eye  misguide  me,  or  my  aim  swerve  a 


392  THE   DISOWNED. 

hair's-breadth  from  its  target !  I  thought  once,  when  I  learnt 
the  art  as  a  boy,  that  in  battle,  rather  than  in  the  execution  of 
a  single  criminal,  that  skill  would  avail  me," 

"Well,  we  shall  have  a  glorious  opportunity  to-morrow 
night  ?  "  answered  the  first  speaker  ;  "  that  is,  if  it  does  not  rain 
so  infernally  as  it  does  this  night  :  but  we  shall  have  a  watch 
of  many  hours,  I  dare  say." 

"  That  matters  but  little,"  replied  the  other  conspirator ; 
**  nor  even  if,  night  after  night,  the  same  vigil  is  renewed  and 
baffled,  so  that  it  bring  its  reward  at  last." 

"  Right,"  quoth  the  first ;  "I  long  to  be  at  it !— ugh  !  ugh  ! 
— what  a  confounded  cough  I  have  :  it  will  be  my  death  soon, 
I'm  thinking." 

'*If  so,"  said  the  other,  with  a  solemnity  which  seemed 
ludicrously  horrible,  from  the  strange  contrast  of  the  words 
and  object — "  die  at  least  with  the  sanctity  of  a  brave  and 
noble  deed  upon  your  conscience  and  your  name  ! " 

"  Ugh  !  ugh  ! — I  am  but  a  man  of  color,  but  I  am  a  patriot, 
for  all  that,  my  good  friend  !  See,  the  violence  of  the  rain  has 
ceased:  we  will  proceed":  and  with  these  words  the  worthy 
pair  left  the  place  to  darkness  and  Mr.  Brown. 

'*  Oh,  Lord  !  "said  the  latter,  stepping  forth,  and  throwing,  as 
it  were,  a  whole  weight  of  suffocating  emotion  from  his  chest, 
"what  bloody  miscreants  !  Murder  his  Majesty's  ministers! 
—^  slioot  them  like  pigeons  ! ' — '  d^ — d  pretty  shot ! '  indeed. 
O  Lord  !  what  iiwiild  the  late  Lady  Waddilove,  who  always 
hated  even  the  Whigs  so  cordially,  say  if  she  were  alive  !  But 
how  providential  that  I  should  have  been  here  ;  who  knows 
but  1  may  save  the  lives  of  the  whole  administration,  and  get 
a  pension,  or  a  little  place  in  the  post-office  !  I'll  go  to  the 
prime  minister  directly — this  very  minute  !  Pish  !  ain't  you 
right  now,  you  cursed  thing?"  upbraiding  the  umbrella,  which, 
half-right  and  half-wrong,  seemed  endued  with  an  instinctive 
obstinacy  for  the  sole  purpose  of  tormenting  its  owner. 

However,  losing  this  petty  affliction  in  the  greatness  of  his 
present  determination,  Mr.  Brown  issued  out  of  his  lair,  and 
hastened  to  put  his  benevolent  and  loyal  intentions  into  effect 


THE  DISOWNED.  39^ 


CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

"  When  laurelled  ruffians  die,  the  Heaven  and  Earth, 
And  the  deep  Air  give  warning.     Shall  the  good 
Perish  and  not  a  sign  !  " — Anon. 

It  was  the  evening  after  the  event  recorded  in  our  last 
chapter  ;  all  was  hushed  and  dark  in  the  room  Avhere  Mordaunt 
sat  alone,  the  low  and  falling  embers  burnt  dull  in  the  grate, 
and  througli  the  unclosed  windows  the  high  stars  rode  pale  and 
wan  in  their  career.  The  room,  situated  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  looked  over  a  small  garden,  where  the  sickly  and  hoar 
shrubs,  overshadowed  by  a  few  wintry  poplars  and  grim  firs, 
saddened  in  the  dense  atmosphere  of  fog  and  smoke,  which 
broods  over  our  island  city.  An  air  of  gloom  hung  comfort- 
less and  chilling  over  the  whole  scene  externally  and  within. 
The  room  itself  was  large  and  old,  and  its  far  extremities, 
mantled  as  they  were  with  dusk  and  shadow,  impressed  upon 
the  mind  that  involuntary  and  vague  sensation,  not  altogether 
unmixed  with  awe,  which  the  eye,  resting  upon  a  view  that  it 
can  but  dimly  and  confusedly  define,  so  frequently  com- 
municates to  the  heart.  There  was  a  strange  oppression  at 
Mordaunt's  breast,  with  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to 
contend.  Ever  and  anon,  an  icy  but  passing  chill,  like  the 
shivers  of  a  fever,  shot  through  his  veins,  and  a  wild  and 
unearthly  and  objectless  awe,  stirred  through  his  hair,  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  a  glassy  and  cold  dew,  and  sought,  as  by  a 
self-impulse,  the  shadowy  and  unpenetrated  places  around, 
which  momently  grew  darker  and  darker.  Little  addicted  by 
his  peculiar  habits  to  an  over-indulgence  of  the  imagination, 
and  still  less  accustomed  to  those  absolute  conquests  of  the 
l)hys!cal  frame  oyer  the  mental,  which  seem  the  usual  sources 
of  that  feeling  we  call  presentiment,  Mordaunt  rose,  and,  walk- 
ing to  and  fro  along  the  rQom,  endeavored  by  the  exercise  to 
restore  to  his  veins  their  wonted  and  heallhful  circulation.  It 
was  past  the  hour  in  which  his  daughter  retired  to  rest ;  but  he 
was  often  accustomed  to  steal  up  to  her  chamber,  and  watch 
her  in  her  young  slumbers.;  ana  he  felt  this  night  a  more  than 
usual  desire  to  perform  that  office  of  love  :  so  he  left  the  room 
and  ascended  the  stairs,  It  was  a  large  old  house  that  he 
tenanted.  The  staircase  was  broad,  and  lighted  from  above 
by  a  glass  dome  ;  and  as  he  slowly  ascended,  and  the  stars 
gleamed  down  still  and  ghastly  upon  his  steps,  he  fancied — but 
he  knew  not  v/hy — ^that  there  was  an  omen  in  their  gleam.     He 


394  THE   DISOWNED. 

entered  the  young  Isabel's  chamber;  there  was  a  light  burning 
within  ;  he  stole  to  her  bed,  and  putting  aside  the  curtain,  felt, 
as  he  looked  upon  her  peaceful  and  pure  beauty,  a  cheering 
warmth  gather  round  his  heart.  How  lovely  is  the  sleep  of 
childhood  !  What  worlds  of  sweet,  yet  not  utterly  sweet, 
associations  does  it  not  mingle  with  the  envy  of  our  gaze  ! 
What  thoughts,  and  hopes,  and  cares,  and  forebodings  does  it 
not  excite  !  There  lie  in  that  yet  ungrieved  and  unsullied 
lieart  what  unnumbered  sources  of  emotion  !  what  deep  foun- 
tains of  passion  and  woe  !  Alas !  whatever  be  its  earlier 
triumphs,  the  victim  must  fall  at  last  !  As  the  hart  which 
the  jackals  pursue,  the  moment  its  race  is  begun,  the  human 
prey  is  fore-doomed  for  destruction,  not  by  the  single 
sorrow,  but  the  thousand  cares ;  it  may  baffle  one  race 
of  pursuers,  but  a  new  succeeds  ;  as  fast  as  some  drop  off 
exhausted,  others  spring  up  to  renew  and  to  perpetuate  the 
chace  ;  and  the  fated,  though  flying  victim,  never  escapes — 
but  in  death.  There  was  a  faint  smile  upon  his  daughter's  lip, 
as  Mordaunt  bent  down  to  kiss  it ;  the  dark  lash  rested  on  the 
snowy  lid — ah,  that  tears  had  no  well  beneath  its  surface  ! — 
and  her  breath  stole  from  her  rich  lips  with  so  regular  and 
calm  a  motion,  that  like  the  "forest  leaves,"  it  "seemed 
stirred  with  prayer  !  "  *  One  arm  lay  over  the  coverlid,  the 
other  pillowed  her  head,  in  the  unrivalled  grace  of  infancy. 

Mordaunt  stooped  once  more,  for  his  heart  filled  as  he 
gazed  upon  his  child,  to  kiss  her  cheek  again,  and  to  mingle  a 
blessing  with  the  kiss.  When  he  rose — upon  that  fair  smooth 
face  there  was  one  bright  and  glistening  drop ;  and  Isabel 
stirred  in  sleep,  and,  as  if  suddenly  vexed  by  some  painful 
dream,  she  sighed  deeply  as  she  stirred.  It  was  the  last  time 
that  the  cheek  of  the  young  and  predestined  orphan  was  ever 
pressed  by  a  father's  kiss,  or  moistened  by  a  father's  tear !  He 
left  the  room  silently;  no  sooner  had  he  left  it,  than,  as  if 
without  the  precincts  of  some  charmed  and  preserving  circle, 
the  chill  and  presentiment  at  his  heart  returned.  There  is  a 
feeling  which  perhaps  all  have  in  a  momentary  hypochondria 
felt  at  times  ;  it  is  a  strong  and  shuddering  impression  which 
Coleridge  has  embodied  in  his  own  dark  and  supernatural 
verse,  that  something  not  of  earth  is  behind  us — that  if  we  turned 
our  gaze  backward  we  should  behold  that  which  would  make 
the  heart  as  a  bolt  of  ice,  and  the  eye  shrivel  and  parch  within 
its  socket.  And  so  intense  is  the  fancy  that,  when  we  turn, 
and  all  is  void,  from  that  very  void  we  could  shape  a  spectre, 

•  "  And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with  prayer." — Bvron, 


Tttfi  DISOWNED.  395 

as  fearful  as  the  image  our  terror  had  foredravvn  I  Somewhat 
such  feeling  had  Mordaunt  now,  as  his  steps  sounded  hollow 
and  echoless  on  the  stairs,  and  the  stars  filled  the  air  around 
him  with  their  shadowy  and  solemn  presence.  Breaking  by  a 
violent  effort  from  a  spell  of  which  he  felt  that  a  frame  some- 
what overtasked  of  late  was  the  real  enchanter,  he  turned  once 
more  into  the  room  which  he  had  left  to  visit  Isabel.  He  had 
pledged  his  personal  attendance  at  an  important  motion  in  the 
House  of  Commons  for  that  night,  and  some  political  papers 
were  left  upon  his  table,  which  he  had  promised  to  give  to  one 
of  the  members  of  his  party.  He  entered  the  room,  purposing 
to  stay  only  a  minute;  an  hour  passed  before  he  left  it ;  and 
his  servant  afterwards  observed  that,  on  giving  him  some 
orders  as  he  passed  through  the  hall  to  the  carriage,  his  cheek 
was  as  white  as  marble,  and  that  his  step,  usually  so  haughty 
and  firm,  reeled  and  trembled,  like  a  fainting  man's.  Dark 
and  inexplicable  Fate  !  weaver  of  wild  contrasts,  demon  of  this 
hoary  and  old  world,  that  movest  through  it,  as  a  spirit  moveth 
over  the  waters,  filling  the  depths  of  things  with  a  solemn 
mystery  and  an  everlasting  change  !  thou  sweepest  over  our 
graves,  and  Joy  is  born  from  the  ashes  ;  thou  sweepest  over 
Joy,  and  lo,  it  is  a  grave  !  Engine  and  tool  of  the  Almighty, 
whose  years  cannot  fade,  thou  changest  the  earth  as  a  gar- 
ment, and  as  a  vesture  it  is  changed  ;  thou  makest  it  one  vast 
sepulchre  and  womb  united,  swallowing  and  creating  life !  and 
reproducing,  over  and  over,  from  age  to  age,  from  the  birth  of 
creation  to  the  creation's  doom,  the  same  dust  and  atoms 
ivhich  were  our  fathers,  and  which  are  the  sole  heirlooms  that 
through  countless  generations  they  bequeath  and  perpetuate 
to  their  sons. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 

*'  Methinks,  before  the  issue  of  our  fate, 
A  spirit  moves  within  us,  and  impels 
The  passion  of  a  prophet  to  our  lips." — Anon. 

"  O  vitas  philosophia  dux,  virtutis  indagatrix  ! — ClC* 

Upox  leaving  the  House  of  Commons,  Mordaunt  was 
accosted  by  Lord  Ulswater,  who  had  just  taken  his  seat  in  the 
Upper  House.  Whatever  abstraction  or  whatever  weakness 
Mordaunt  might  have  manifested  before  he  had  left  his  home, 
he  had  now   entirely   conquered  both  ;  and  it  was  with  his 

*  O  PhilosopbuB.  «»«v«JMctress  of  life— searcher  after  virtue  I 


556'  THE   DISOWNED. 

usual  collected  address  that  he  replied  to  Lord  Ulswater's 
salutations,  and  congratulated  him  on  his  change  of  name,  and 
accession  of  honors. 

It  was  a  night  of  uncommon  calm  and  beauty  ;  and,  although 
the  moon  was  not  visible,  the  frosty  and  clear  sky,  "clad  in 
the  lustre  of  its  thousand  stars,"  f  seemed  scarcely  to  mourn 
either  the  hallowing  light,  or  the  breathing  poesy  of  her  pres- 
ence ;  and,  when  Lord  Ulswater  proposed  that  Mordaunt 
should  dismiss  his  carriage,  and  that  tliey  should  walk  home, 
Algernon  consented  not  unwillingly  to  the  proposal.  He  felt, 
indeed,  an  unwonted  relief  in  companionship  ;  and  the  still 
air,  and  the  deep  heavens,  seemed  to  woo  him  from  more 
unwelcome  thoughts,  as  with  a  softening  and  a  sister's 
love. 

**  Let  us,  before  we  return  home,"  said  Lord  Ulswater, 
**  stroll  for  a  few  moments,  towards  the  bridge  ;  I  love  looking 
at  the  river  on  a  night  like  this." 

Whoever  inquires  into  human  circumstances  will  be  struck 
to  find  how  invariably  a  latent  current  of  fatality  appears  to 
pervade  them.  It  is  the  turn  of  the  atom  in  the  scale  which 
makes  our  safety,  or  our  peril ;  our  glory,  or  our  shame  ;  raises 
us  to  the  throne  or  sinks  us  to  the  grave.  A  secret  voice  at 
Mordaunt's  heart  prompted  him  to  dissent  from  this  proposal, 
trifling  as  it  seemed,  and  welcome  as  it  was  to  his  present  and 
peculiar  mood :  he  resisted  the  voice — the  moment  passed 
away,  and  the  last  seal  was  set  upon  his  doom — they  moved 
onward  towards  the  bridge.  At  first,  both  were  silent,  for 
Lord  Ulswater  used  the  ordinary  privilege  of  a  lover,  and  was 
absent  and  absorbed,  and  his  companion  was  never  the  first  to 
break  a  taciturnity  natural  to  his  habits.  At  last  Lord  Uls- 
water said,  '*  I  rejoice  that  you  are  now  in  the  sphere  of  action 
most  likely  to  display  your  talents — you  have  not  spoken  yet, 
I  think  ;  indeed,  there  has  been  no  fitting  opportunity,  but  you 
will  soon,  I  trust." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Mordaunt,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
"  whether  you  judge  rightly  in  thinking  the  sphere  of  political 
exertion  one  the  most  calculated  for  me  :  but  I  feel  at  my 
heart  a  foreboding  that  my  planet  is  not  fated  to  shine  in  any 
earthly  sphere.  Sorrow  and  misfortune  have  dimmed  it  in  its 
birth,  and  now  it  is  waning  towards  its  decline." 
'  "Its  decline!"  repeated  his  companion  —  "no,  rather  its 
meridian.  You  are  in  the  vigor  of  your  years,  the  noon  of  your 
prosperity,  the  height  of  your  intellect  and  knowledge :  you  re- 

t  Marlow. 


THE   DISOWNED.  J97 

<5tuire  only  an  effort  to  add  to  these  blessings  the  most  lasting 
of  all — Fame  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Mordaunt,  and  a  momentary  light  flashed  over 
his  countenance,  "  the  effort  will  be  made.  I  do  not  pretend 
not  to  have  felt  ambition.  No  man  should  make  it  his  boast, 
for  it  often  gives  to  our  frail  and  earth-bound  virtue  both  its 
weapon  and  its  wings  ;  but  when  the  soil  is  exhausted,  its  pro- 
duce fails  ;  and  when  we  have  forced  our  hearts  to  too  great  an 
abundance,  whether  it  be  of  flowers  that  perish,  or  of  grain  that 
endures,  the  seeds  of  after  hope  bring  forth  but  a  languid  and 
scanty  harvest.  My  earliest  idol  was  ambition  ;  but  then  came 
others,  love  and  knowledge,  and  afterwards  the  desire  to  bless. 
That  desire  you  may  term  ambition  ;  but  we  will  suppose  them 
separate  passions  ;  for  by  the  latter  I  would  signify  the  thirst 
for  glory,  either  in  evil  or  in  good  ;  and  the  former  teaches  us, 
though  by  little  and  little,  to  gain  its  object,  no  less  in  secrecy 
than  for  applause  ;  and  Wisdom,  which  opens  to  us  a  world, 
vast,  but  hidden  from  the  crowd,  establishes  also  over  that 
world  an  arbiter  of  its  own,  so  that  its  disciples  grjvv  proud,  and 
communing  with  their  own  hearts,  care  for  no  louder  judgment 
than  the  still  voice  within.  It  is  thus  that  indifference,  not  to 
the  welfare,  but  to  the  report,  of  others  grows  over  us  ;  and 
often,  while  we  are  the  most  ardent  in  their  cause,  we  are  the 
least  anxious  for  their  esteem." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  "  I  have  thought  the  passion 
for  esteem  is  the  best  guarantee  for  deserving  it." 

"Nor  without  justice — other  passions  may  supply  its  place, 
and  produce  the  same  effects  ;  but  the  love  of  true  glory  is  the 
most  legitimate  agent  of  extensive  good,  and  you  do  right  to 
worship  and  enshrine  it.  For  me  it  is  dead  :  it  survived — ay, 
the  truth  shall  out ! — poverty,  want,  disappointment,  bafiled 
aspirations — all,  all,  but  the  deadness,  the  lethargy  of  regret : 
when  no  one  was  left  upon  this  altered  earth  to  animate  its 
efforts,  to  smile  upon  its  success,  then  the  last  spark  quivered 
and  died  ;  and — and — but  forgive  me — on  this  subject  I  am 
not  often  wont  to  wander.  I  would  say  that  ambition  is  for  me 
no  more — not  so  are  its  effects ;  but  the  hope  of  serving  that 
race  whom  I  have  loved  as  brothers,  but  who  have  never  known 
me — who,  by  the  exterior  (and  here  something  bitter  mingled 
with  his  voice),  pass  sentence  on  the  heart — in  whose  eyes  I 
am  only  the  cold,  the  wayward,  the  haughty,  the  morose — the 
hope  of  serving  them  is  to  me,  now,  a  far  stronger  passion  than 
ambition  was  heretofore  ;  and,  whatever  for  that  end  the  love 


398  THE  DISOWNED. 

of  fame  would  have  dictated,  the  love  of  mankind  will  teach 
me  still  more  ardently  to  perform." 

They  were  now  upon  the  bridge  :  Pausing,  they  leant  over, 
and  looked  along  the  scene  before  them.  Dark  and  hushed, 
the  river  flowed  sullenly  on,  save  where  the  reflected  stars 
made  a  tremulous  and  broken  beam  on  the  black  surface  of 
the  water,  or  the  lights  of  the  vast  City  which  lay  in  shadow 
on  its  banks,  scattered,  at  capricious  intervals,  a  pale  but  un- 
piercing  wanness,  rather  than  lustre,  along  the  tide  ;  or,  save 
where  the  stillness  was  occasionally  broken  by  the  faint  oar  of 
the  boatman,  or  the  call  of  his  rude  voice,  mellowed  almost 
into  music  by  distance  and  the  element. 

But  behind  them  as  they  leant,  the  feet  of  passengers,  on  the 
great  thoroughfare,  passed  not  oft — but  quick  ;  and  that  sound, 
the  commonest  of  earth's,  made  rarer  and  rarer  by  the  advanc- 
ing night,  contrasted,  rather  than  destroyed,  the  quiet  of  the 
heaven  and  the  solemnity  of  the  silent  stars. 

"  It  is  an  old,  but  a  just  comparison,"  said  Mordaunt's  com- 
panion, "which  has  likened  life  to  a  river  such  as  we  now  sur- 
vey, gliding  alternately  in  light  or  in  darkness,  in  sunshine  or 
in  storm,  to  that  great  ocean  in  which  all  waters  meet." 

"If,"  said  Algernon,  with  his  usual  thoughtful  and  pensive 
smile,  "  we  may  be  allowed  to  vary  that  simile,  I  would,  separat- 
ing the  universal  and  eternal  course  of  Destiny  from  the  fleet- 
ing generations  of  human  life,  compare  the  river  before  us  to 
that  course,  and  not  //,  but  the  city  scattered  on  its  banks,  to 
the  varieties  axKl  mutability  of  life.  There  (in  the  latter) 
crowded  together  in  the  great  chaos  of  social  union,  we  herd 
in  the  night  of  ages,  flinging  the  little  lustre  of  our  dim  lights 
over  the  sullen  tide  which  rolls  beside  us — seeing  the  tremulous 
ray  glitter  on  the  surface,  only  to  show  us  how  profound  is  the 
gloom  which  it  cannot  break,  and  the  depths  which  it  is  too  faint 
to  pierce.  There  Crime  stalks,  and  Woe  hushes  her  moan,  and 
Poverty  couches,  and  Wealth  riots — and  Death,  in  all  and  each, 
is  at  his  silent  work.  But  the  stream  of  Fate  unconscious  of 
our  changes  and  decay,  glides  on  to  its  engulfing  bourne  ;  and, 
while  it  mirrors  the  faintest  smile  or  the  lightest  frown  of 
Heaven,  beholds,  without  a  change  upon  its  surface,  the  genera- 
tions of  earth  perish,  and  be  renewed,  along  its  banks ! " 

There  was  a  pause  ;  and  by  an  involuntary  and  natural  im- 
pulse, they  turned  from  the  waves  beneath,  to  the  heaven, 
which,  in  its  breathing  contrast,  spread  all  eloquently,  yet 
hushed,  above.  They  looked  upon  the  living  and  intense  stars, 
and  felt  palpably  at  their  hearts  that  spell — wild,  but  mute — 


THE   DISOWNED.  399 

■which  nothing  on  or  of  earth  can  inspire  ;  that  pining  of  the 
imprisoned  soul,  that  longing  after  the  immortality  on  high, 
which  is  perhaps  no  imaginary  type  of  the  immortality  ourselves 
are  heirs  to. 

"It  is  on  such  nights  as  these,"  said  Mordaunt,  who  first 
broke  the  silence,  but  with  a  low  and  soft  voice,  "  that  we  are 
tempted  to  believe  that  in  Plato's  divine  fancy  there  is  as  divine 
a  truth — that  'our  souls  are  indeed  of  the  same  essence  as  the 
stars,'  and  that  the  mysterious  yearning,  the  impatient  wish 
which  swells  and  soars  within  us  to  mingle  with  their  glory,  is 
but  the  instinctive  and  natural  longing  to  re- unite  the  divided 
portion  of  an  immortal  spirit,  stored  in  these  pells  of  clay,  with 
the  original  lijstre  of  the  heavenly  and  burning  whole!  " 

"  And  henee  then,"  said  his  companion,  pursuing  the  idea, 
"might  we  also  believe  in  that  wondrous  and  wild  influence 
which  the  stars  have  been  fabled  to  exercise  over  our  fate  ; 
hence  might  we  shape  a  visionary  clue  to  their  imagined  power 
over  our  birth,  our  destinies,  and  our  death." 

"  Perhaps,"  rejoined  Mordaunt,  and  Lord  Ulswater  has  since 
said  that  his  countenance,  as  he  spoke,  wore  an  awful  and 
strange  aspect,  which  lived  long  and  long  afterwards  in  the 
memory  of  his  companion,  "perhaps  they  are  tokens  and  signs 
between  the  soul  and  the  things  of  Heaven  which  do  not  wholly 
shame  the  doctrine  of  /lim*  from  whose  bright  wells  Plato  drew 
(while  he  colored  with  his  own  gorgeous  errors)  the  waters  of 
his  sublime  lore."  As  Mordaunt  thus  spoke,  his  voice  changed : 
he  paused  abruptly,  and,  pointing  to  a  distant  quarter  of  the 
heavens,  said  : 

"  Look  yonder;  do  you  see,  in  the  far  horizon,  one  large  and 
solitary  star,  that,  at  this  very  moment,  seems  to  wax  pale  and 
paler,  as  my  hand  points  to  it  ? " 

"  I  see  it — it  shrinks  and  soars,  while  we  gaze  into  the  far- 
ther depths  of  heaven,  as  if  it  were  seeking  to  rise  to  some 
higher  orbit." 

"  And  do  you  see,"  rejoined  Mordaunt,  "  yon  fleecy,  but 
dusk  cloud  which  sweeps  slowly  along  the  sky  towards  it ! 
What  shape  does  that  cloud  wear  to  your  eyes  ? " 

"It  seems  to  me,"  answered  Lord  Ulswater,  "  to  assume  the 
exact  semblance  of  a  funeral  procession — the  human  shape  ap- 
pears to  me  as  distinctly  moulded  in  the  thin  vapors  as  in  our- 
selves ;  nor  would  it  perhaps  ask  too  great  indulgence  from  our 
fancy  to  imagine  among  the  darker  forms  in  the  centre  of  the 
cloud  one  bearing  the  very  appearance  0/  a  bier — the  plume, 

*  Socrates,  who  taught  the  belief  in  omens. 


400  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  the  caparison,  and  the  steeds,  and  the  mourners  !  Still,  as 
I  look,  the  likeness  seems  to  me  to  increase  ! " 

"  Strange,"  said  Mordaunt  musingly,  '*  how  strange  is  this 
thing  which  we  call  the  mind  !  Strange  that  the  dreams  and 
superstitions  of  childhood  should  cling  to  it  with  so  inseparable 
and  fond  a  strength  I  I  remember,  years  since,  that  I  was 
affected  even  as  I  am  now,  to  a  degree  which  wiser  men  might 
shrink  to  confess,  upon  gazing  on  a  cloud  exactly  similar  to 
that  which  at  this  instant  we  behold.  But  see — that  cloud  has 
passed  over  the  star  ;  and,  now,  as  it  rolls  away,  look,  the  star 
itself  has  vanished  into  the  heavens." 

"  But  I  fear,"  answered  Lord  Ulswater,  with  a  slight  smile, 
*'  that  we  can  deduce  no  omen,  either  from  the  cloud  or  the 
star  :  would,  indeed,  that  Nature  wefY  more  visibly  knit  with 
our  individual  existence  !  Would  that  in  the  heavens  there 
were  a  book,  and  in  the  waves  a  voice,  and  on  the  earth  a  token 
of  the  mysteries  and  enigmas  of  our  fate  !  " 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mordaunt  slowly,  as  his  mind  gradually 
rose  from  its  dreamlike  oppression  to  its  wonted  and  healthful 
tone,  "  yet,  in  truth,  we  want  neither  sign  nor  omen  from  other 
worlds  to  teach  us  all  that  it  is  the  end  of  existence  to  fulfil 
in  this  ;  and  that  seems  to  me  a  far  less  exalted  wisdom  which  en- 
ables us  to  solve  the  riddles^  than  that  which  elevates  us  above 
the  chances,  of  the  future." 

"  But  can  we  be  placed  above  those  chances — can  we  become 
independent  of  that  fate  to  which  the  ancients  taught  that  even 
their  deities  were  submitted  ?" 

"  Let  us  not  so  wrong  the  ancients,"  answered  Mordaunt  ; 
"  their  poets  taught  it,  not  their  philosophers.  Would  not  vir- 
tue be  a  dream,  a  mockery  indeed,  if  it  were,  like  the  herb  of 
the  field,  a  thing  of  blight  and  change,  of  withering  and  rer 
newal,  a  minion  of  the  sunbeam  and  the  cloud  ?  Shall  calamity 
deject  it  ?  Shall  prosperity  pollute  ?  then  let  it  not  be  the 
object  of  our  aspiration,  but  the  by-word  of  our  contempt.  No: 
let  us  rather  believe,  with  the  great  of  old,  that  when  it  is  based 
on  wisdom,  it  is  throned  above  change  and  chance  !  throned 
above  the  things  of  a  petty  and  sordid  world  !  throned  above 
the  Olympus  of  the  heathen  !  throned  above  the  Stars  which 
fade,  and  the  Moon  which  waneth  in  her  course !  Shall  we 
believe  less  of  the  divinity  of  Virtue  than  an  Athenian  Sage? 
Shall  7ve,  to  whose  eyes  have  been  revealed,  without  a  cloud, 
the  blaze  and  the  glory  of  Heaven,  make  Virtue  a  slave  to  those 
chains  of  earth  which  the  Pagan  subjected  to  her  feet?  But  if 
by  her  we  can  trample  on  the  ills  of  life,  are  we  not,  a  hundred- 


THE   DISOWNED,  4OI 

fold  more,  by  her,  the  vanquishers  of  death  ?  All  creation  lies 
before  ns  ;  shall  we  cling  to  a  grain  of  dust  ?  All  immortality 
is  our  heritage  :  shall  we  gasp  and  sicken  for  a  moment's 
breath?  What  if  we  perish  within  an  hour  ? — what  if  already 
the  black  cloud  lowers  over  us — what  if  from  our  hopes  and 
projects,  and  the  fresh  woven  ties  which  we  have  knit  around 
our  life,  we  are  abruptly  torn,  shall  we  be  the  creatures  or  the 
conquerors  of  fate  ?  Shall  we  be  the  exiled  from  a  home,  or  the 
escaped  from  a  dungeon  ?  Are  we  not  as  birds  which  look 
into  the  Great  Air  only  through  a  barred  cage?  Shall  we  shrink 
and  mourn  when  the  cage  is  shattered  and  all  space  spreads 
around  us — our  element  and  our  empire?  No  ;  it  was  not  for 
this  that  in  an  elder  day,  Virtue  and  Valor  received  but  a  com- 
mon name  !  The  soul  into  which  that  spirit  has  breathed  its 
glory  is  not  only  above  Fate — it  profits  by  her  assai;lts  !  At- 
tempt to  weaken  it  and  you  nerve  it  with  a  new  strength — to 
wound  it,  and  you  render  it  more  invulnerable — to  destroy  it 
and  you  make  it  immortal.  This  indeed  is  the  Sovereign  whose 
realm  every  calamity  increases — the  Hero  whose  triumph  every 
invasion  augments  ! — standing  on  the  last  sands  of  life,  and 
encircled  by  the  advancing  waters  of  Darkness  and  Eternity,  it 
becomes  in  its  expiring  effort  doubly  the  Victor  and  the  King !  " 
Impressed,  by  the  fervor  of  his  companion,  with  a  sympathy 
almost  approaching  to  awe,  Lord  Ulswater  pressed  Mordaunt's 
hand,  but  offered  no  reply  ;  and  both,  excited  by  the  high 
theme  of  their  conversation,  and  the  thoughts  which  it  pro- 
duced, moved  in  silence  from  their  post,  and  walked  slowly 
homeward. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 

"  Is  it  possible  ? 
Is't  so  ?     I  can  no  longer  what  I  would  j 
No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking  !  I 
Must  do  the  deed  because  I  thought  of  it. 

♦  *  *  *  » 

What  is  thy  enterprise — thy  aim,  thy  object  ? 
Hast  honestly  confessed  it  to  thyself? 
***** 

O  bloody,  frightful  deed  ! 

*  ^  »  *  »  * 

Was  that  my  purpose  when  we  parted  ? 

O  God  of  Justice!' — Coleridge's  Wallenstein. 

We  need  scarcely  say  that  one  of  the  persons  overheard  by 
Mr,  Brown  was  Wolfe,  and  the  peculiar  tone  of  oratorical  ejc- 


402  THE    DISOWNED. 

aggeration,  characteristic  of  the  man,  has  already  informed 
the  reader  with  which  of  the  two  he  is  identified. 

On  the  evening  after  the  conversation — the  evening  fixed  for 
the  desperate  design  on  which  he  had  set  the  last  hazard  of 
his  life — the  republican,  parting  from  the  companions  with 
whom  he  had  passed  the  day,  returned  home  to  compose  the 
fever  of  his  excited  thoughts,  and  have  a  brief  hour  of  solitary 
meditation,  previous  to  the  committal  of  that  act  which  he 
knew  must  be  his  immediate  passport  to  the  gaol  and  the 
gibbet.  On  entering  his  squalid  and  miserable  home,  the 
woman  of  the  house,  a  blear-eyed  and  filthy  hag,  who  was 
holding  to  her  withered  breast  an  infant,  which,  even  in  suck- 
ing the  stream  that  nourished  its  tainted  existence,  betrayed 
upon  its  haggard  countenance  the  polluted  nature  of  the 
mother's  milk,  from  which  it  drew  at  once  the  support  of  life 
and  the  seeds  of  death — this  woman,  meeting  him  in  the 
narrow  passage,  arrested  his  steps,  to  acquaint  him  that  a  gen- 
tleman had  that  day  called  upon  him,  and  left  a  letter  in  his 
room,  with  strict  charge  of  care  and  speed  in  its  delivery. 
The  visitor  had  not,  however,  communicated  his  name,  though 
the  curiosity  excited  by  his  mien  and  dress  had  prompted  the 
crone  particularly  to  demand  it. 

Little  affected  by  this  incident,  which  to  the  hostess  seemed 
no  unimportant  event,  Wolfe  pushed  the  woman  aside,  with  an 
impatient  gesture,  and,  scarcely  conscious  of  the  abuse  which 
followed  this  motion,  hastened  up  the  sordid  stairs  to  his 
apartment.  He  sate  himself  down  upon  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
and,  covering  his  face  with  his  liands,  surrendered  his  mind  to 
the  tide  of  contending  emotions  which  rushed  upon  it. 

What  was  he  about  to  commit  ?  Murder  ! — murder  in  its 
coldest  and  most  premeditated  guise  !  *'No  !  "  cried  he  aloud, 
starting  from  the  bed,  and  dashing  his  clenched  hand  violently 
against  his  brow — "no — no — no  !  it  is  not  murder,  it  is  justice  ! 
Did  not  they,  the  hirelings  of  Oppression,  ride  over  their  crushed 
and  shrieking  countrymen,  with  drawn  blades  and  murtherous 
hands?  Was  I  not  among  them  at  the  hour?  Did  I  not  with 
these  eyes  see  the  sword  uplifted,  and  the  smiter  strike?  Were 
not  my  ears  filled  with  the  groans  of  their  victims  and  the 
savage  yells  of  the  tramj^ling  dastards ! — yells  which  rung  in 
triumph  over  women  and  babes  and  weaponless  men  ?  And  shall 
there  be  no  vengeance  ?  Yes,  it  shall  fall,  not  upon  the  tools, 
but  the  master — not  upon  the  slaves,  but  the  despot  !  Yet," 
said  he,  suddenly  pausing,  as  his  voice  sank  into  a  whisper, 
"assassination  !  in  another  hour,  perhaps  ;  a  deed  irrevocable — 


THE  DlSOWNfift.  46^ 

A  seal  set  upon  two  souls — the  victim's  and  the  judge's  !  Fet- 
ters and  the  felon's  cord  before  me ! — the  shouting  mob — 
the  stigma  ! — no,  no,  it  Avill  no^  be  the  stigma ;  the  gratitude, 
rather,  of  future  times,  when  motives  will  be  appreciated  and 
party  hushed  !  Have  I  not  wrestled  with  wrong  from  my 
birth? — have  I  not  rejected  all  offers  from  the  men  of  an 
impious  power? — have  I  made  a  moment's  truce  with  the  poor 
man's  foes? — have  I  not  thrice  purchased  free  principles  with 
an  imprisoned  frame ! — have  I  not  bartered  my  substance,  and 
my  hopes,  and  the  pleasures  of  this  world  for  my  unmoving, 
unswerving  faith  in  the  Great  Cause? — am  I  not  about  to 
crown  all  by  one  blow — one  lightning  blow,  destroying  at  once 
myself  and  a  criminal  too  mighty  for  the  law? — and  shall  not 
history  do  justice  to  this  devotedness — this  absence  from  all 
self,  hereafter — and  admire,  even  if  it  condemn?" 

Buoying  himself  with  these  reflections,  and  exciting  the 
jaded  current  of  his  designs  once  more  into  an  unnatural 
impetus,  the  unhappy  man  ceased,  and  paced  with  rapid  steps 
the  narrow  limits  of  his  chamber;  his  eye  fell  upon  something 
bright,  which  glittered  amidst  the  darkening  shadows  of  the 
evening.  At  that  sight  his  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment  ;  it 
was  the  weapon  of  intended  death  :  he  took  it  up,  and  as  he 
surveyed  the  shining  barrel,  and  felt  the  lock,  a  more  settled 
sternness  gathered  at  once  over  his  fierce  features  and  stub- 
born heart.  The  pistol  had  been  bought  and  prepared  for  the 
purpose  with  the  utmost  nicety,  not  only  for  use  but  show  ; 
nor  is  it  unfrequent  to  find,  in  such  instances  of  premeditated 
ferocity  in  design,  a  fearful  kind  of  coxcombry  lavished  upon 
the  means. 

Striking  a  light,  Wolfe  re-seated  himself  deliberately,  and 
began,  with  the  utmost  care,  to  load  the  pistol ;  that  scene 
would  not  have  been  an  unworthy  sketch  for  those  painters 
who  possess  the  power  of  giving  to  the  low  a  force  almost 
approaching  to  grandeur,  and  of  augmenting  the  terrible  by  a 
mixture  of  the  ludicrous  ;  the  sordid  chamber,  the  damp  walls, 
the  high  window,  in  which  a  handful  of  discolored  paper  sup- 
plied the  absence  of  many  a  pane ;  the  single  table  of  rough 
oak,  the  rush-bottomed  and  broken  chair,  the  hearth  uncon- 
scious of  a  fire,  over  which  a  mean  bust  of  Milton  held  its 
tutelary  sway — while  the  dull  rushlight  streamed  dimly  upon 
the  swarthy  and  strong  countenance  of  Wolfe,  intent  upon  his 
work — a  countenance  in  which  the  deliberate  calmness  that 
had  succeeded  the  late  struggle  of  feeling  had  in  it  a  mingled 
power  of  energy  and  haggardness  of  languor,  the  one  of  the 


464  The  disowned. 

desperate  design,  the  other  of  the  exhausted  body,  while  in 
the  knit  brow,  and  the  iron  lines,  and  even  in  the  settled 
ferocity  of  expression,  there  was  yet  something  above  the  stamp 
of  the  vulgar  ruffian — something  eloquent  of  the  motive  no 
le^s  than  the  deed,  and  significant  of  that  not  ignoble  perver- 
sity of  mind  which  diminished  the  guilt,  yet  increased  the 
dreadness  of  the  meditated  crime,  by  mocking  it  with  the 
name  of  virtue. 

As  he  had  finished  his  task,  and,  hiding  the  pistol  in  his 
person,  waited  for  the  hour  in  which  his  accomplice  was  to 
summon  him  to  the  fatal  deed  he  perceived,  close  by  him  on 
the  table,  the  letter  which  the  woman  had  spoken  of,  and  which, 
till  then,  he  had,  in  the  excitement  of  his  mind,  utterly  for- 
gotten. He  opened  it  mechanically — an  inclosure  fell  to  the 
ground.  He  picked  it  up — it  was  a  bank-note  of  considerable 
amount.  The  lines  in  the  letter  were  few,  anonymous,  and 
written  in  a  hand  evidently  disguised.  They  were  calculated 
peculiarly  to  touch  the  republican,  and  reconcile  him  to  the 
gift.  In  them  the  writer  professed  to  be  actuated  by  no  other 
feeling  than  admiration  for  the  unbending  integrity  which  had 
characterized  Wolfe's  life,  and  the  desire  that  sincerity  in  any 
principles,  however  they  might  differ  from  his  own,  should  not 
be  rewarded  only  with  indigence  and  ruin. 

It  is  impossible  to  tell  how  far,  in  Wolfe's  mind,  his  own 
desperate  fortunes  might,  insensibly,  have  mingled  with  the 
motives  which  led  him  to  his  present  design  :  certain  is  it  that, 
wherever  the  future  is  hopeless,  the  mind  is  easily  converted 
from  the  rugged  to  the  criminal ;  and  equally  certain  it  is  that 
we  are  apt  to  justify  to  ourselves  many  offences  in  a  cause 
where  we  have  made  great  sacrifices  :  and,  perhaps,  if  this  un- 
expected assistance  had  come  to  Wolfe  a  short  time  before,  it 
might,  by  softening  his  heart,  and  reconciling  him  in  some 
measure  to  fortune,  have  rendered  him  less  susceptible  to  the 
fierce  voice  of  political  hatred  and  the  instigation  of  his  as- 
sociates. Nor  can  we,  who  are  removed  from  tlie  temptations 
of  the  poor — temptations  to  which  ours  are  as  breezes  which 
woo,  to  storms  which  "tumble  towers" — nor  can  we  tell  how 
far  the  acerbity  of  want,  and  the  absence  of  wholesome  sleep, 
and  the  contempt  of  the  rich,  and  the  rankling  memory  of 
better  fortunes,  or  even  the  mere  fierceness  which  absolute 
hunger  produces  in  the  humors  and  veins  of  all  that  hold 
nature's  life — nor  can  we  tell  how  far  these  madden  the 
temper,  which  is  but  a  minion  of  the  body,  and  plead  in 
irresistible  excuse  for  the  crimes  which   our  wondering  vir- 


tHE   DISOWNED.  40^ 

tue — haughty  because  unsolicited — stamps  with  its  loftiest 
reprobation  ! 

The  cloud  fell  from  Wolfe's  brow,  and  his  eye  gazed,  musingly 
and  rapt,  upon  vacancy.  Steps  were  heard  ascending — the 
voice  of  a  distant  clock  tolled  with  a  distinctness  which  seemed 
like  strokes  palpable  as  well  as  audible  to  the  senses ;  and  as 
the  door  opened,  and  his  accomplice  entered,  Wolfe  muttered, 
"Too  late — too  late!" — and  first  crushing  the  note  in  his 
hands,  then  tore  it  into  atoms,  with  a  vehemence  which 
astonished  his  companion,  who,  however,  knew  not  its  value. 

"Come,"  said  he,  stamping  his  foot  violently  upon  the  floor, 
as  if  to  conquer  by  passion  all  internal  relenting — "come,  my 
friend,  not  another  moment  is  to  be  lost ;  let  us  hasten  to  our 
holy  deed  !  " 

•  "  I  trust,"  said  Wolfe's  companion,  when  they  were  in  the 
open  street,  "  that  we  shall  not  have  our  trouble  in  vain  ;  it  is 
a  brave  night  for  it !  Davidson  wanted  us  to  throw  grenades 
into  the  ministers'  carriages,  as  the  best  plan  ;  and,  faith,  we 
can  try  that  if  all  else  fails  !  " 

Wolfe  remained  silent — indeed  he  scarcely  heard  his  com- 
panion ;  for  a  sullen  indifference  to  all  things  around  him  had 
wrapt  his  spirit — that  singular  feeling,  or  rather  absence  from 
feeling,  common  to  all  men,  when  bound  on  some  exciting  ac- 
tion, upon  which  their  minds  are  already  and  wholly  bent ; 
which  renders  them  utterly  without  thought,  when  the  superficial 
would  imagine  they  were  the  most  full  of  it,  and  leads  them  to 
the  threshold  of  that  event  which  had  before  engrossed  all 
their  most  waking  and  fervid  contemplation  with  a  blind  and 
mechanical  unconsciousness,  resembling  the  influence  of  a 
dream 

They  arrived  at  the  place  they  had  selected  for  their  station, 
sometimes  walking  to  and  fro,  in  order  to  escape  observation, 
sometimes  hiding  behind  the  pillars  of  a  neighboring  house, 
they  awaited  the  coming  of  their  victims.  The  time  passed 
on — the  streets  grew  more  and  more  empty  ;  and,  at  last,  only 
the  visitation  of  the  watchman — or  the  occasional  steps  of  some 
homeward  wanderer,  disturbed  the  solitude  of  their  station. 

At  last,  just  after  midnight,  two, men  were  seen  approaching 
towards  them,  linked  arm  in  arm,  and  walking  very  slowly. 

"Hist — hist,"  whispered  Wolfe's  comrade — " there  they  are 
at  last — is  your  pistol  cocked  ? " 

"Ay,"  answered  Wolfe, "and  yours  :  man — collect  yourself — ■ 
■your  hand  shakes." 
:     "It  is  with  the  cold,  then,"  said  the  ruffian,  using,  uncoa» 


4o6  THE   DISOWNED. 

sciously,  a  celebrated  reply — "Let  us  withdraw  behind  the 
pillar." 

They  did  so — the  figures  approached  them  ;  the  night, 
though  star-lit,  was  not  sufficiently  clear  to  give  the  assassins 
more  than  the  outline  of  their  shapes,  and  the  characters  of 
their  height  and  air. 

"  Which,"  said  Wolfe,  in  a  whisper — for  as  he  had  said,  he 
had  never  seen  either  of  his  intended  victims — "which  is  »y 
prey  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  nearest  to  you,"  said  the  other,  with  trembling  ac- 
cents ;  "  you  know  his  d — d  proud  walk,  and  erect  head — 
that  is  the  way  he  answers  the  people's  petitions,  I'll  be  sworn. 
The  taller  and  farther  one,  who  stoops  more  in  his  gait,  is  mine. " 

The  strangers  were  now  at  hand. 

"  You  know  you  are  to  fire  first,  Wolfe,"  whispered  the  nearer 
ruffian,  whose  heart  had  long  failed  him,  and  who  was  already 
mediiating  escape. 

"  But  you  are  sure — quite  sure  of  the  identity  of  our  pfey  ?" 
said  Wolfe,  grasping  his  pistol. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  other  ;  and,  indeed,  the  air  of  the  nearest 
person  approaching  them  bore,  in  the  distance,  a  strong  re- 
semblance to  that  of  the  minister  it  was  supposed  to  designate. 
His  companion,  who  appeared  much  younger,  and  of  a  mien 
equally  patrician,  but  far  less  proud,  seemed  listening  to  the 
supposed  minister  with  the  most  earnest  attention.  Apparently 
occupied  with  their  conversation,  when  about  twenty  yards 
from  the  assassins,  they  stood  still  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Stop,  Wolfe,  stop,"  said  the  republican's  accomplice,  whose 
Indian  complexion,  by  fear,  and  the  wan  light  of  the  lamps  and 
skies,  faded  into  a  jaundiced  and  yellow  hue,  while  the  bony 
whiteness  of  his  teeth  made  a  grim  contrast  with  the  glare  of 
his  small,  black,  sparkling  eyes.  "Stop,  Wolfe — hold  your 
hand.  I  see,  now,  that  I  was  mistaken  ;  the  farther  one  is  a 
stranger  to  me,  and  the  nearer  one  is  much  thinner  than  the 
minister  :  pocket  your  pistol — quick — quick — and  let  us  with- 
draw." 

Wolfe  drop  ed  his  hand,  as  if  dissuaded  from  his  design ; 
but,  as  he  looked  upon  the  trembling  frame  and  chattering 
teeth  of  his  terrified  accomplice,  a  sudden,  and  not  unnatural, 
idea  darted  Across  his  mind  that  he  was  wilfully  deceived  by 
the  fears  of  his  companion  ;  and  that  the  strangers,  who  had 
"now  resumed  their  way,  were  indeed  what  his  accomplice  had 
first  reported  them  to  be.  Filled  with  this  impression,  and 
acting  upon  the  momentary  spur  which  it  gave,  the  infatuated 


THE   DISOWttES.  407 

and  fated  man  pushed  aside  his  comrade,  with  a  muttered  oath 
at  his  cowardice  and  treachery,  and  taking  a  sure  and  steady, 
though  quick,  aim  at  the  person,  who  was  now  just  within  the 
certain  destruction  of  his  hand,  he  fired  the  pistol.  The 
stranger  reeled,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  his  companion. 

"  Hurra  !  "  cried  the  murderer,  leaping  from  his  hiding- 
place,  and  walking  with  rapid  strides  towards  his  victim — 
"  hurra  !  for  liberty  and  England  !" 

Scarce  had  he  uttered  those  prostituted  names,  before  the 
triumph  of  misguided  zeal  faded  suddenly  and  forever  from  his 
brow  and  soul. 

The  wounded  man  leaned  back  in  the  supporting  arms  of  liis 
chilled  and  horror-stricken  friend  ;  who,  kneeling  on  one  knee 
to  support  him,  fixed  his  eager  eyes  upon  thfe  pale  and  chang- 
ing countenance  of  his  burthen,  unconscious  of  the  presence 
of  the  assassin. 

"  Speak,  Mordaunt,  speak  !  how  is  it  with  you  ?"  he  said. 

Recalled  from  his  torpor  by  the  voice,  Mordaunt  opened  his 
eyes,  and  muttering  "  My  child,  my  child,"  sunk  back  again  ; 
and  Lord  Ulswater  (for  it  was  he)  felt,  by  his  increased  weight, 
that  death  was  hastening  rapidly  on  its  victim. 

"Oh!  "  said  he,  bitterly,  and  recalling  their  last  conversa- 
tion ;  "Oh!  where — where — when  this  man — the  wise,  the 
kind,  the  innocent,  almost  the  perfect,  falls  thus  in  the  very 
prime  of  existence,  by  a  sudden  blow  from  an  obscure  hand — 
unblest  in  life,  inglorious  in  death — oh  !  where — where  is  this 
boasted  triumph  of  Virtue,  or  where  is  its  reward  ?  " 

True  to  his  idol  at  the  last,  as  these  words  fell  upon  his 
dizzy  and  receding  senses,  Mordaunt  raised  himself  by  a  sud- 
den, though  momentary,  exertion  ;  and  fixing  his  eyes  full 
upon  Lord  Ulswater,  his  moving  lips  (for  his  voice  was  already 
gone)  seemed  to  shape  out  the  answer,  "//  is  here  !  " 

With  this  last  effort,  and  with  an  expression  upon  his  aspect 
which,  seemed  at  once  to  soften  and  to  hallow  the  haughty  and 
calm  character  which  in  life  it  was  wont  to  bear,  Algernon 
Mordaunt  fell  once  more  back  into  the  arms  of  his  companion, 
and  immediately  expired. 


46S  f  He  DisoWiJfiD. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVIII. 

"  Come,  Death,  these  are  thy  victims,  and  the  axe 
Waits  those  who  claimed  the  chariot — Thus  we  count 
Our  treasures  in  the  dark,  and  when  the  light 
Breaks  on  the  cheated  eye,  we  find  the  coin 
Was  skulls. — 

*  *  #  *  * 

Yet  the  while 
Fate  links  strange  contrasts,  and  the  scaffold's  gloom 
Is  neighbored  by  the  altar." — Anon.' 

When  Crauford's  guilt  and  imprisonment  became  known  ; 
when  Inquiry  developed,  day  after  day,  some  new  maze  in  the 
mighty  and  intricate  machinery  of  his  sublime  dishonesty ; 
when  houses  of  the  most  reputed  wealth  and  profuse  splendor, 
whose  affairs  Crauford  had  transacted,  were  discovered  to  have 
been  for  years  utterly  underiTiined  and  beggared,  and  only  sup- 
ported by  the  extraordinary  genius  of  the  individual  by  whose 
extraordinary  guilt,  now  no  longer  concealed,  they  were  sud- 
denly and  irretrievably  destroyed  ;  when  it  was  ascertained 
that,  for  nearly  the  fifth  part  of  a  century,  a  system  of  villainy 
had  been  carried  on  throughout  Europe,  in  a  thousand  different 
relations,  without  a  single  breath  of  suspicion,  and  yet  which  a 
single  breath  of  suspicion  could  at  once  have  arrested  and  ex- 
posed ;  when  it  was  proved  that  a  man  whose  luxury  had  ex- 
ceeded the  pomp  of  princes,  and  whose  wealth  was  supposed 
more  inexhaustible  than  the  enchanted  purse  of  Fortunatus, 
had  for  eighteen  years  been  a  penniless  pensioner  upon  the 
prosperity  of  others  ;  when  the  long  scroll  of  this  almost  in- 
credible fraud  was  slowly,  piece  by  piece,  unrolled  before  the 
terrified  curiosity  of  the  public,  an  invading  army  at  the  Temple 
gates  could  scarcely  have  excited  stich  universal  consternation 
and  dismay. 

The  mob,  always  the  first  to  execute  justice,  in  their  own 
inimitable  way,  took  vengeance  upon  Crauford,  by  burning  the 
house  no  longer  his,  and  the  houses  of  the  partners,  who  were 
the  worst  and  most  innocent  sufferers  for  his  crime.  No  epithet 
of  horror  and  hatred  was  too  severe  for  the  offender ;  and 
serious  apprehension  for  the  safety  of  Newgate,  his  present 
habitation,  was  generally  expressed.  The  more  saintly  mem- 
bers of  that  sect  to  which  the  hypocrite  had  ostensibly  be- 
longed held  up  their  hands,  and  declared  that  the  fall  of  the 
Pharisee  was  a  judgment  of  Providence.  Nor  did  they  think 
it  worth  while  to  make,  for  a  moment,  the  trifling  inquiry,  how 


THE  DISOWNED.  409 

far  the  judgment  of  Providence  was  also  implicated  in  the 
destruction  of  the  numerous  and  innocent  families  he  had 
ruined  ! 

But,  whether  from  that  admiration  for  genius,  common  to  the 
vulgar,  which  forgets  all  crime  in  the  cleverness  of  committing 
it,  or  from  that  sagacious  disposition  peculiar  to  the  English, 
which  makes  a  hero  of  any  person  eminently  wicked,  no  sooner 
did  Crauford's  trial  come  on  than  the  tide  of  popular  feeling 
experienced  a  sudden  revulsion.  It  became,  in  an  instant,  the 
fashion  to  admire  and  to  pity  a  gentleman  so  talented  and  so 
unfortunate.  Likenesses  of  Mr.  Crauford  appeared  in  every 
print-shop  in  town — the  papers  discovered  that  he  was  the  very 
fav^-simile  of  the  great  King  of  Prussia.  The  laureate  made  an 
ode  upon  him,  which  was  set  to  music  ;  and  the  public  learnt, 
with  tears  of  compassionate  regret  at  so  romantic  a  circum- 
stance, that  pigeon-pies  were  sent  daily  to  his  prison  made  by 
the  delicate  hands  of  one  of  his  former  mistresses.  Some  sen- 
sation, also,  was  excited  by  the  circumstance  of  his  poor  wife 
(who  soon  afterwards  died  of  a  broken  heart)  coming  to  him  in 
prison,  and  being  with  difficulty  torn  away  ;  but  then,  conjugal 
affection  is  so  very  commonplace,  and — there  was  something  so 
engrossingly  pathetic  in  the  anecdote  of  the  pigeon-pies  ! 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Crauford  displayed  singular  address 
and  ability  upon  his  trial ;  and  fighting  every  inch  of  ground, 
even  to  the  last,  when  so  strong  a  phalanx  of  circumstances 
appeared  against  him,  that  no  hope  of  a  favorable  verdict  could 
for  a  moment  have  supported  him — he  concluded  the  trial  with 
a  speech  delivered  by  himself — so  impressive,  so  powerful,  so 
dignified,  yet  so  impassioned,  that  the  whole  audience,  hot  as 
they  were,  dissolved  into  tears. 

Sentence  was  passed — Death  !  But  such  was  theinfafuation 
of  the  people,  that  every  one  expected  that  a  pardon,  for  crime 
more  complicated  and  extensive  than  half  the  Newgate  Calendar 
could  equal,  would  of  course  be  obtained,  Persons  of  the 
highest  rank  interested  themselves  in  his  behalf  :  and  up  to  the 
night  before  his  execution,  expectations,  almost  amounting  to 
certainty,  were  entertained  by  the  criminal,  his  friends,  and 
the  public.  On  that  night  was  conveyed  to  Crauford  the  posi- 
tive and  peremptory  assurance  that  there  was  no  hope.  Let 
us  now  enter  his  cell,  and  be  the  sole  witnesses  of  his  solitude. 

Crauford  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  man  in  some  respects  of 
great  moral  courage,  of  extraordinary  daring  in  the  formation 
of  schemes,  of  unwavering  resolution  in  supporting  them,  and 
of  a  temper  which  rather  rejoiced  in,  than  shunned,  the  brav- 


4ld  tHfi  DiSOWNED. 

ing  of  a  distant  danger  for  the  sake  of  an  adequate  reward. 
But  this  courage  was  supported  and  fed  solely  by  the  self- 
persuasion  of  consummate  genius,  and  his  profound  confidence 
both  in  his  good  fortune,  and  the  inexhaustibility  of  his 
resources.  Physically  he  was  a  coward  !  immediate  peril  to  be 
confronted  by  the  person,  not  the  mind,  had  ever  appalled  him 
like  a  child-  He  had  never  dared  to  back  a  spirited  horse. 
He  had  been  known  to  remain  for  days  in  an  obscure  alehouse 
in  the  country,  to  which  a  shower  had  accidentally  driven  him, 
because  it  had  been  idly  reported  that  a  wild  beast  had  escaped 
from  a  caravan,  and  been  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  the  inn.  No 
dog  had  ever  been  allowed  in  his  household,  lest  it  might  go 
mad.  In  a  word,  Crauford  was  one  to  whom  life  and  sensual 
enjoyments  were  everything — the  supreme  blessings — the  only 
blessings. 

As  long  as  he  had  the  hope,  and  it  was  a  sanguine  hope,  of 
saving  life,  nothing  had  disturbed  his  mind  from  its  serenity. 
His  gaiety  had  never  forsaken  him  ;  and  his  cheerfulness  and 
fortitude  had  been  the  theme  of  every  one  admitted  to  his 
presence.  But  when  this  hope  was  abruptly  and  finally  closed — 
when  Death,  immediate  and  unavoidable — Death — the  extinc- 
tion of  existence — the  cessation  of  sense,  stood  bare  and  hideous 
before  him,  his  genius  seemed  at  once  to  abandon  him  to  his 
fate,  and  the  inherent  weakness  of  his  nature  to  gush  over  every 
prop  and  barrier  of  his  art. 

"  No  hope  !  "  muttered  he,  in  a  voice  of  the  keenest  anguish — 
"  no  hope — merciful  God — none — none  !  What,  I — / — who 
have  shamed  kings  in  luxury — I  to  die  on  the  gibbet,  among 
the  reeking,  gaping,  swinish  crowd  with  whom — Oh  God, 
that  I  were  one  of  them  even  !  that  I  were  the  most  loathsome 
beggar  that  ever  crept  forth  to  taint  the  air  with  sores  ! — that 
1  were  a  toad  immured  in  a  stone,  sweltering  in  the  atmosphere 
of  its  own  venom  ! — a  snail  crawling  on  these  very  walls,  and 
tracking  his  painful  path  in  slime! — anything — anything,  but 
death  !  And  such  death — the  gallows — the  scaffold — the 
halter — the  fingers  of  the  hangman  paddling  round  the  neck 
where  the  softest  caresses  have  clung  and  sated.  To  die — die — 
die!  What, /whose  pulse  now  beats  so  strongly — whose  blood 
keeps  so  warm  and  vigorous  a  motion  ! — in  the  very  prime  of 
enjoyment  and  manhood — all  life's  million  paths  of  pleasure 
before  me — to  die — to  swing  to  the  winds — to  hang — ay — ay — 
to  hang  ! — to  be  cut  down,  distorted  and  hideous — to  be  thrust 
into  the  earth  with  worms — to  rot,  or — or — or  hell !  is  there  a 
hell  ? — better  that  even,  than  annihilation  / 


THE    DISOWNED.  4H 

**  Fool — fool ! — damnable  fool  that  I  was  (and  in  his  sudden 
rage  he  clenched  his  own  flesh  till  the  nails  met  in  it) ;  had  I 
but  got  to  France  one  day  sooner!  Why  don't  you  save  me — 
save  me — you  whom  I  have  banquetted,  and  feasted,  and  lent 
money  to  ! — one  word  from  you  might  have  saved  me — I  will 
not  die  !  I  don't  deserve  it ! — I  am  innocent  ! — I  tell  you  Not 
guilty,  my  lord — not  guilty !  Have  you  no  heart,  no  con- 
sciences ? — murder — murder — murder  !  "  and  the  wretched  man 
sunk  upon  the  ground,  and  tried  with  his  hands  to  grasp  the 
stone  floor,  as  if  to  cling  to  it  from  some  imaginary  violence. 

Turn  we  from  him  to  the  cell  in  which  another  criminal 
awaits  also  the  awful  coming  of  his  latest  morrow. 

Pale,  motionless,  silent — with  his  face  bending  over  his  bosom, 
and  hands  clasped  tightly  upon  his  knees,  Wolfe  sat  in  his 
dungeon,  and  collected  his  spirit  against  the  approaching  con- 
summation of  his  turbulent  and  stormy  fate — his  bitterest  pun- 
ishment had  been  already  past ;  mysterious  Chance,  or  rather 
thePower  above  chance,  had  denied  to  him  the  haughty  triumph 
of  self-applause.  No  sophistry,  now,  could  compare  his  doom 
to  that  of  Sidney,  or  his  deed  to  the  act  of  the  avenging  Brutus. 

Murder — causeless — objectless — universally  execrated — rest- 
ed, and  would  rest  (till  oblivion  wrapt  it)  upon  his  name.  It 
had  appeared,  too,  upon  his  trial,  that  he  had,  in  the  informa- 
tion he  had  received,  been  the  mere  tool  of  a  spy,  in  the 
ministers'  pay  ;  and  that,  for  weeks  before  his  intended  deed, 
his  design  had  been  known,  and  his  conspiracy  only  not  bared 
to  the  public  eye,  because  political  craft  awaited  a  riper  oppor- 
tunity for  the  disclosure.  He  had  not  then  merely  been  the 
blind  dupe  of  his  own  passions,  but,  more  humbling  still,  an 
instrument  in  the  hands. of  the  very  men  whom  his  hatred  was 
sworn  to  destroy.  Not  a  wreck — not  a  straw,  of  the  vainglory, 
for  which  he  had  forfeited  life,  and  risked  his  soul,  could  he 
hug  to  a  sinking  heart,  and  say  "This  is  my  support." 

The  remorse  of  gratitude  embittered  his  cup  still  farther. 
On  Mordaunt's  person  had  been  discovered  a  memorandum  of 
the  money  anonymously  enclosed  to  Wolfe  on  the  day  of  the 
murder  ;  and  it  was  couched  in  words  of  esteem  which  melted 
the  fierce  heart  of  the  republican  into  the  only  tears  he  had 
shed  since  childhood.  From  that  time,  a  sullen,  silent  spirit 
fell  upon  him.  He  spoke  to  none — heeded  none  :  he  made  no 
defence  in  trial — no  complaint  of  severity — no  appeal  from 
judgment.  The  iron  had  entered  into  his  soul — but  it  sup- 
ported, while  it  tortured.  Even  now,  as  we  gaze  upon  his 
inflexible  and  dark  countenance,  no  transitory  emotion — no 


412  THE    DISOWNED/ 

natural  spasm  of  sudden  fear  for  the  catastrophe  of  the  mor- 
row— no  intense  and  working  passions,  struggling  into  calm — 
no  sign  of  internal  hurricanes,  rising,  as  it  were,  from  the  hidden 
depths,  agitate  the  surface,  or  betray  the  secrets  of  the  unfathom- 
able world  within.  The  mute  lip — the  rigid  brow— the  down- 
cast eye — a  heavy  and  dread  stillness,  brooding  over  every 
feature — these  are  all  we  behold  ! 

Is  it  that  thought  sleeps,  locked  in  the  torpor  of  a  senseless 
and  rayless  dream  ;  or  that  an  evil  incubus  weighs  upon  it» 
crushing  its  risings,  but  deadening  not  its  pangs?  Does  Mem- 
ory fly  to  the  green  fields  and  happy  home  of  his  childhood,  or 
the  lonely  studies  of  his  daring  and  restless  youth,  or  his  earli- 
est homage  to  that  Spirit  of  Freedom  which  shone  bright,  and 
still,  and  pure,  upon  the  solitary  chambe.."  of  him  who  sung  of 
heaven  ;*  or  (dwelling  on  its  last  and  most  fearful  object)  rolls 
it  only  through  one  tumultuous  and  convulsive  channel — De- 
spair ?  Whatever  be  within  the  silent  and  deep  heart — pride, 
or  courage,  or  callousness,  or  that  stubborn  firmness  which, 
once  principle  has  grown  habit,  covers  all  as  with  a  pall ;  and 
the  stung  nerves  and  the  hard  endurance  of  the  human  flesh, 
sustain  what  the  immortal  mind  perhaps  quails  beneath,  in  its 
dark  retreat,  but  once  dreamt  that  it  would  exult  to  bear. 

The  fatal  hour  had  come  !  and,  through  the  long,  dim  pas- 
sages of  the  prison,  four  criminals  were  led  forth  to  execution. 
The  first  was  Crauford's  associate,  Bradley.  This  man  prayed 
fervently  ;  and,  though  he  was  trembling  and  pale,  his  mien 
and  aspect  bore  something  of  the  calmness  of  resignation. 

It  has  been  said  that  there  is  no  friendship  among  the 
wicked.  I  have  examined  this  maxim  closely,  and  believe  it, 
like  most  popular  proverbs,  false.  In  wickedness  there  is 
peril — and  mutual  terror  is  the  strongest  of  ties.  At  all  events, 
the  wicked  can,  not  unoften,  excite  an  attachment  in  their  fol- 
lowers denied  to  virtue.  Habitually  courteous,  caressing,  and 
familiar,  Crauford  had,  despite  his  own  suspicions  of  Bradley, 
really  touched  the  heart  of  one,  whom  weakness  and  want,  not 
nature,  had  gained  to  vice  ;  and  it  was  not  till  Crauford's  guilt 
was  by  other  witnesses  undeniably  proved  that  Bradley  could 
be  tempted  to  make  any  confession  tending  to  implicate  him. 

He  now  crept  close  to  his  former  partner,  and  frequently 
clasped  his  hand,  and  besought  him  to  take  courage,  and  to 
pray.  But  Crauford's  eye  was  glassy  and  dim,  and  his  veins 
seemed  filled  with  water — so  numbed  and  cold  and  white  was 
hi§  cheek.     Fear,  in  him,  had  passed  its  paroxysms,  and  wag 

*  mm, 


THE    DISOWNEL*.  413 

now  insensibility ;  it  was  only  when  they  urged  him  to  pray 
that  a  sort  of  benighted  consciousness  strayed  over  his  coun- 
tenance and  his  ashen  lips  muttered  something  which  none 
heard. 

After  him  came  the  Creole,  who  had  been  Wolfe's  accom- 
plice. On  the  night  of  the  murder  he  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  general  loneliness,  and  the  confusion  of  the  few  present, 
and  fled.  He  was  found,  however,  fast  asleep,  in  a  garret,  be- 
fore morning,  by  the  officers  of  justice  ;  and,  on  trial,  he  had 
confessed  all.  This  man  was  in  a  rapid  consumption.  The 
delay  of  another  week  would  have  given  to  nature  the  termin- 
ation of  his  life.  He,  like  Bradley,  seemed  earnest  and  ab- 
sorbed in  prayer. 

Last  came  Wolfe,  his  tall,  gaunt  frame  worn,  by  confinement 
and  internal  conflict,  into  a  gigantic  skeleton  ;  his  countenance, 
too,  had  undergone  a  withering  change  ;  his  grizzled  hair 
seemed  now  to  have  acquired  only  the  one  hoary  hue  of  age  ; 
and,  though  you  might  trace  in  his  air  and  eye  the  sternness, 
you  could  no  longer  detect  the  fire,  of  former  days.  Calm,  as 
on  the  preceding  night,  no  emotion  broke  over  his  dark,  but 
not  defying  features.  He  rejected,  though  not  irreverently,  all 
aid  from  the  benevolent  priest,  and  seemed  to  seek,  in  the 
pride  of  his  own  heart,  a  substitute  for  the  resignation  of  Re- 
ligion. 

"  Miserableman:!  "  at  last  said  the  good  clergyman,  in  whom 
zeal  overcame  kindness,  "  have  you  at  this  awful  hour  no  pray- 
er upon  your  lips?" 

A  living  light  shot  then  for  a  moment  over  Wolfe's  eye  and 
brow.  "  I  have  !  "  said  he  ;  and  raising  his  clasped  hands  to 
neaven,  he  continued  in  the  memorable  words  of  Sidney — 
' '  Lord,  defend  thy  own  cause,  and  defend  those  who  defend 
It !  Stir  up  such  as  are  faint ;  direct  those  that  are  willing  ;  con- 
firm those  that  waver  ;  give  wisdom  and  integrity  to  all ;  order 
all  things  so  as  may  most  redound  to  thine  own  glory  !  " 

"  I  had  once  hoped,"  added  Wolfe,  sinking  in  his  tone — "  I 
had  once  hoped  that  I  might  with  justice  have  continued  that 
holy  prayer  ;  *  but — "  he  ceased  abruptly  ;  the  glow  passed 
from  his  countenance,  his  lip  quivered,  and  the  tears  stood  in 
his  eyes  ;  and  that  was  the  only  weakness  he  betrayed,  and 
those  were  his  last  words. 

Crauford  continued,  even  while  the  rope  was  put  round  him, 

*  "  Grant  that  I  may  die  glorifying  thee  for  all  thy  mercies,  and  that  at  the  last  thou 
hast  permitted  me  to  be  singled  out  as  a  witness  of  thy  truth,  and  even  by  the  confession 
of  my  opposers  for  that  old  cause  in  which  I  was- from  my  youth  engaged,  and  for 
VhJC"  thpu  Hast  often  at)d  wonderfully  declared  thyself." — Alqernon  Sidney, 


414  THE    DISOWNED. 

mute  and  unconscious  of  everything.  It  was  said  that  his 
pulse  (that  of  an  uncommonly  strong  and  healthy  man  on  the 
previous  day),  had  become  so  low  and  faint  that,  an  hour  be- 
fore his  execution,  it  could  not  be  felt.  He  and  the  Creole 
were  the  only  ones  who  struggled ;  Wolfe  died,  seemingly, 
without  a  pang. 

From  these  feverish  and  fearful  scenes,  the  mind  turns,  with 
a  feeling  of  grateful  relief,  to  contemplate  the  happiness  of  one 
whose  candid  and  high  nature,  and  warm  affections.  Fortune, 
long  befriending,  had  at  length  blest. 

It  was  on  an  evening  in  the  earliest  flush  of  returning  spring, 
that  Lord  Ulswater,  with  his  beautiful  bride,  entered  his  mag- 
nificent domains.  It  had  been  his  wish  and  order,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  brother's  untimely  death,  that  no  public  rejoic- 
ings should  be  made  on  his  marriage  ;  but  the  good  old  stew- 
ard could  not  persuade  himself  entirely  to  enforce  obedience 
to  the  first  order  of  his  new  master  ;  and  as  the  carriage 
drove  into  the  park-gates,  crowds  on  crowds  were  assembled, 
to  welcome  and  to  gaze. 

No  sooner  had  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  their  young  lord, 
whose  affability  and  handsome  person  had  endeared  him  to  all 
who  remembered  his  early  days,  and  of  the  half-blushing,  half- 
smiling,  countenance  beside  him,  than  their  enthusiasm  could 
be  no  longer  restrained.  The  whole  scene  rang  with  shouts  of 
joy — and  through  an  air  filled  with  blessings,  and  amidst  an 
avenue  of  happy  faces,  the  bridal  pair  arrived  at  their  home. 

"Ah!  Clarence  (for  so  I  must  still  call  you),"  said  Flora, 
her  beautiful  eyes  streaming  with  delicious  tears,  "  let  us  never 
leave  these  kind  hearts  ;  let  us  live  amongst  them,  and  strive 
to  repay  and  deserve  the  blessings  which  they  shower  upon  us ! 
Is  not  Benevolence,  dearest,  better  than  Ambition?" 

"Can  it  not  rather,  my  own  Flora,  be  Ambition  itself?" 


CONCLUSION. 

"  So  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen." — Monsieur  Thomas. 

The  Author  has  now  only  to  take  his  leave  of  the  less  im- 
portant characters  whom  he  has  assembled  together  ;  and  then, 
all  due  courtesy  to  his  numerous  guests  being  performed,  to 
retire  himself  to  repose. 

First,  then,  for  Mr,  Morris  Brown ;   In  the  second  year  of 


•rHfi  DisoWNfifi.  4'5 

Lord  Ulswater's  marriage,  the  worthy  broker  paid  Mrs.  Min- 
den's  nephew  a  visit,  in  which  he  persuaded  that  gentleman  to 
accept,  "  as  presents,"  two  admirable  fire  screens,  the  property 
of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove  :  the  same  may  be  now  seen  in  the 
housekeeper's  room,  at  Borodaile  Park,  by  any  person  willing 
to  satisfy  his  curiosity  and — the  housekeeper.  Of  all  farther 
particulars  respecting  Mr.  Morris  Brown  history  is  silent. 

In  the  obituary  for  1792,  we  find  the  following  paragraph  ; 
Died  at  his  house  in  Putney,  aged  seventy-three.  Sir  Nicholas 
Copperas,  Knt.,  a  gentleman  well  known  on  the  Exchange  for 
his  facetious  humor.  Several  of  hxsbons-mois  are  still  recorded 
in  the  Common  Council.  When  residing,  many  years  ago,  in 
the  suburbs  of  London,  this  worthy  gentleman  was  accustomed 
to  go  from  his  own  house  to  the  Exchange  in  a  coach  called 
'the  Swallow,'  that  passed  his  door  just  at  breakfast-time  ; 
upon  which  occasion  he  was  wont  wittily  to  observe  to  his  ac- 
complished spouse — 'And  now,  Mrs.  Copperas,  having  swal- 
lowed in  the  roll,  I  will  e'en  roll  in  the  Swallow  ! '  His  whole 
property  is  left  to  Adolphus  Copperas,  Esq.,  Banker." 

And  in  the  next  year  we  discover  : 

"Died,  on  Wednesday  last,  at  her  jointure  house,  Putney,  in 
her  sixty-eighth  year,  the  amiable  and  elegant  Lady  Copperas, 
relict  of  the  late  Sir  Nicholas,  Knt." 

Mr.  Trollolop,  having  exhausted  the  whole  world  of  meta- 
physics, died,  like  Descartes,  "in  believing  he  had  left  nothing 
unexplained." 

Mr.  Callythorpe  entered  the  House  of  Commons  at  the  time 
of  the  French  Revolution.  He  distinguished  himself  by  many 
votes  in  favor  of  Mr.  Pitt,  and  one  speech  which  ran  thus  : 
"  Sir,  I  believe  my  right  honorable  friend  who  spoke  last  (Mr. 
Pitt),  designs  to  ruin  the  country ;  but  [I  will  support  him 
through  all  ;  honorable  gentlemen  may  laugh — but  I'm  a  true 
Briton,  and  will  not  serve  my  friend  the  less  because  I  scorn  to 
flatter  him." 

Sir  Christopher  Findlater  lost  his  life  by  an  accident  arising 
from  the  upset  of  his  carriage  ;  his  good  heart  not  having  suf- 
fered him  to  part  with  a  drunken  coachman. 

Mr.  Glumford  turned  miser  in  his  old  age  ;  and  died  of  want, 
and  an  extravagant  son. 

Our  honest  Cole  and  his  wife  were  always  anlong  the  most 
welcome  visitors  at  Lord  Ulswater's.  In  his  extreme  old  age 
the  ex-King  took  a  journey  to  Scotland,  to  see  the  Author  of 
"The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel."  Nor  should  we  do  justice  to 
the  chief's  critical  discernment  if  we  neglected  to  record  that, 


41 6  THE   DISOWNED. 

from  the  earliest  dawn  of  that  great  luminary  of  our  age,  he 
predicted  its  meridian  splendor.  The  eldest  son  of  the  gypsy 
monarch  inherited  his  father's  spirit,  and  is  yet  alive,  a  general, 
and  G.C.B. 

Mr.  Harrison  married  Miss  Elizabeth,  and  succeeded  to  the 
Golden  Fleece. 

The  Duke  of  Haverfield  and  Lord  Ulswater  continued  their  | 
friendship  through  life  ;  and  the  letters  of  our  dear  Flora  to  ' 
her  correspondent,  Eleanor,  did  not  cease  even  with  that  criti- 
cal and  perilous  period  to  all  maiden  correspondence — mar- 
riage. If  we  may  judge  from  the  subsequent  letters  which  we 
have  been  permitted  to  see,  Eleanor  never  repented  her  bril- 
liant nuptials,  nor  discovered  (as  the   Duchess  of once 

said  from  experience),  "that  dukes  are  as  intolerable  for  hus- 
bands as  they  are  delightful  for  matches." 

And  Isabel  Mordaunt  ? — Ah  !  not  in  these  pages  shall  her 
history  be  told  even  in  epitome.  Perhaps  for  some  future  nar- 
rative her  romantic  and  eventful  fate  may  be  reserved.  Suffice 
it  for  the  present,  that  the  childhood  of  the  young  heiress 
passed  in  the  house  of  Lord  Ulswater,  whose  proudest  boast, 
through  a  triumphant  and  prosperous  life,  was  to  have  been 
her  father's  friend  ;  and  that  as  she  grew  up,  she  inherited  her 
mother's  beauty  and  gentle  heart,  and  seemed  to  bear  in  her 
deep  eyes  and  melancholy  smile  some  remembrance  of  the 
scenes  in  which  her  infancy  had  been  passed. 

But  for  him,  the  husband  and  the  father,  whose  trials  throiigh 
this  wrong  world  I  have  portrayed — for  him  let  there  be  neither 
murmurs  at  the  blindness  of  Fate,  nor  sorrow  at  the  darkness 
of  his  doom.  Better  that  the  lofty  and  bright  spirit  should 
pass  away  before  the  petty  business  of  life  had  bowed  it,  or  the 
sordid  mists  of  this  low  earth  breathed  a  shadow  on  its  lustre  ! 
Who  would  have  asked  that  spirit  to  have  struggled  on  for 
years  in  the  intrigues — the  hopes — the  objects  of  meaner  souls? 
Who  would  have  desired  that  the  heavenward  and  impatient 
heart  should  have  grown  inured  to  the  chains  and  toil  of  this 
enslaved  state,  or  hardened  into  the  callousness  of  age  ?  Nor 
would  we  claim  the  vulgar  pittance  of  compassion  for  a  lot 
which  is  exalted  abm^e  regret  ?  Pity  is  for  our  weaknesses — to 
our  weaknesses  only  be  it  given.  It  is  the  aliment  of  love — it 
is  the  wages  of  ambition — it  is  the  rightful  heritage  of  error ! 
But  why  should  pity  be  entertained  for  the  soul  which  neverfell  ? 
— for  the  courage  which  never  quailed  ? — for  the  majesty  never 
humbled  ? — for  the  wisdom  which,  from  the  rough  things  of  the 
common  world,  raised  an  empire  above  earth  and   destiny  ? — ■ 


THE   DISOWNED.  417 

for  the  stormy  life  ? — it  was  a  triumph  ! — for  the  early  death  ? — 
it  was  immortality  ! 

I  have  stood  beside  Mordaunt's  tomb  :  his  will  had  directed 
that  he  should  sleep  not  in  the  vaults  of  his  haughty  line — and 
his  last  dwelling  is  surrounded  by  a  green  and  pleasant  spot. 
The  trees  shadow  it  like  a  temple  ;  and  a  silver,  though  fitful 
brook  wails  with  a  constant,  yet  not  ungrateful  dirge,  at  tlie 
foot  of  the  hill  on  which  the  tomb  is  placed.  I  have  stood 
there  in  those  ardent  years  when  our  wishes  know  no  boundary, 
and  our  ambition  no  curb  ;  yet,  even  then,  I  would  have 
changed  my  wildest  vision  of  romance  for  that  quiet  grave, 
and  the  dreams  of  the  distant  spirit  whose  relics  reposed  be- 
neath it. 


THE  END. 


